


The Dream Path: The Age of Darkness I

by Xaire



Series: The Age of Darkness Saga [1]
Category: Cthulhu Mythos - Fandom, Cthulhu Mythos - H. P. Lovecraft, Dream Cycle - H. P. Lovecraft, Original Work
Genre: Gen, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-01
Updated: 2018-12-30
Packaged: 2019-01-09 20:57:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 28
Words: 103,811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12284283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xaire/pseuds/Xaire
Summary: An Ultharian girl goes on a quest to Kadath after receiving horrifying messages in her dreams.





	1. The Dream

 

When she slept, she saw their home;  
Cleansed in fire, standing in death alone…

Azathoth waits and gibbers to all;  
The Crawling Chaos witnesses their fall…

"I damn and bind you to the Dream Path;  
Come—I bid you—come to Kadath…"  
           

                    —Unkown

                                                             

 

 

 

Knee deep in the ancient grass, she walked aside the glistening River Skai towards the forest with her cat trotting at her heels. She could see the dark green band of trees far ahead, stretching infinitely to the East and the West (Where the sun was beginning to vanish over the horizon, turning blood red as it did so). This marked the border of the mysterious and forbidden Enchanted Wood where deadly and evil things are said to lurk. Aside from the distant forest and the river where luminescent fish swam and giant insects hovered, there was nothing else to be seen but the endless expanses of grass. All around her, the wind played with this grass, making it sway gently back and forth just as it did with the girl's jet black hair. Just a day ago, Clair could see the distant lights and chimney smoke of Ulthar, the town she left behind. She had a family there: old Stoua the local carpenter, her father, and Dalia, her mother. There was also Picyna, the local drunk, Atal the priest and his student Kayan and not to mention the immense population of cats of which Ulthar was known for.

All of that was behind her now, Clair’s family and the peaceful little town in which she was born and raised. All she had now was her longtime friend and pet, Willow, and the vivid visions of Azathoth and his demonic offspring, Nyarlathotep, beckoning her ever forward towards Kadath.   

            Her journey began some time ago (she had lost count of the days as they passed) with a dream. Like any other night, the young girl went to bed and slept, expecting the usual sweet dreams her mother wished to her every night and expecting to forget them the next morning. Instead, she had slept herself into a cold and infinite void darker than any moonless night she had ever seen. Her own form was gone. She was reduced to a disembodied consciousness stranded in the endless space.

            Then Clair saw a light. It was a long, curved band of light that resembled the familiar crescent moon. The familiarity was good. In this vast and terrifying darkness, it was not only good to see a light but to see a light that she saw twice a month on restless nights. She tried drifting closer, hoping the light could lead her home, but found she could not move. Her bodiless essence remained fixed in that one spot in infinity. But that mattered little when she saw that the light ahead was not the moon but a _planet_.

She stared in awe as the crescent of light grew to its full shape and slowly gained color as it did. There were hues of sandy brown and dark green occasionally blocked from view by scratches of white. The land was as green as grass and trees of Ulthar and the clouds as equally pure. The most stunning thing about this planet, though, was the vast ocean, seeming to cover over half of immense sight. The blue waters sparkled like jewels beneath the warming sun that gave life to this world. However, the beauty quickly ended when the warming light of the sun turned blood red, washing over the glittering planet with a shade of the most ghastly crimson. The green land burned. The seas evaporated away and became blacked clouds that blanketed the grey surface. The millions of fragile creatures that called that planet their home were vaporized, leaving only their shell-like cities and monuments to mark their place in infinite history. Their dying screams, multiplied a million-fold, echoed through Clair’s mind like a hideous bell. She tried to cover her ears but remembered she had no ears, let alone any hands with which to cover them.

Clair waited. The screams continued. “Stop!” she tried to yell, but her voice was silenced by the vacuum.

The screaming ended. Clair couldn’t hold back her relief despite the tragedy she just witnessed. As her disembodied consciousness pulsed with an ironic laughter, a new sound broke the void. It was a complex jumble of words, incantations, and a myriad of unearthly noises that threated to tear Clair’s mind apart. Beneath the orchestra of clicks, warbles, moans, buzzes, roars, growls, drones, and other unexplainable sounds she heard the faint trace of human speech. At first, they were impossible to understand, but as Clair focused on the human voices, the other ungodly noises drifted away leaving the choir of human beings to their chanting. Nothing the voices said made any sense to Clair, but every indistinguishable letter and syllable stuck to Clair’s mind and arranged itself into sentence she would forever remember: _Ph'nglui mglw'nafh Cthulhu R'lyeh wgah'nagl fhtagn_. Near the end of the hellish choir, the voices droned in unison “Ia! Ia! Cthulhu fhtagn!”

Dead silence again. Clair drifted in the void, paralyzed with fear and shock. As the former planet burned before her, Clair struggled to understand what just happened. Eons seemed to pass before the universe began to stir again, prompting Clair out of her state of utter fear. The vast, black canvas of void around her seemed to bend. The stars slowly began to drift from their  former places. As she watched the universe warp and disfigure, she felt the presence of other planets that circled around the life-giving star. She sensed a boiling rock-world, enveloped in its own fumes and gases that was the home of many stone-skinned scorpion beast and giant crawling disk. She sensed a world that hugged its parent star and housed a tiny kingdom of hive crawlers; she sensed a red world of octopi that skulked beneath the sands; a world surrounded by vibrant, rainbow rings that were the gods of primitive cat-like creatures; a titan world of mindless balloon-hunters, a blue world of hellish winds that played with the marching trees that lived there; and a world that spun on another axis. She felt this mass spectrum of worlds and creatures dance around her, tranquil and in bliss, until they too suffered the same, bloody fate as the glittering planet. More screaming and more suffering surrounded her. She soon sensed the presence of a final planet: a small, dark, and lonely world that drifted on the very edge of the solar system. Its surface was nearly starved of the light and warmth that the other worlds were privileged with. It watched as the whole spectrum of planets crumbled under the malevolent hands of the unseen entity.

The stars began moving more violently and started swirling around a central point in the void, creating a vortex that engulfed the worlds and their parent star. Out of this pit of destruction and mayhem came a million lights and colors. The screaming ceased, slowly drowned out by the sound of other worldly music. Clair turned to face the chaotic display of lights as they grew and continued to consume the space around her. The music became louder and louder as a new presence began to approach. It was everywhere, a thing so vast that the known universe barely contained it. Within the streams of light and color, Clair began seeing claws and teeth that raved and mauled at the fabric of space. Her sight involuntarily fell on the chaotic apex as it began to split like a giant pair of eyelids. She saw the colors and forms of the universe circle within the iris of a giant eye as it gazed downward at her. Unimaginable fear struck her as she understood the identity of the presence.

“Azathoth…” she whispered.

“ **CLE’R!** ” Azathoth growled, as if in response.

Clair trembled. The universe had plunged within the mad abyss that was Azathoth and there was no escape.

The eye closed again, only to open once more as a mouth filled with a trillion spear-like teeth. The mouth swallowed everything, including Clair, and she was in total darkness again.

“Clair…” She heard a distant whisper.

Clair, now on the brink of madness, searched around desperately for the source of the new voice. Despite the terrifying predicament, the voice was calm and soothing, yet still carried a malevolent air. She saw a distant figure, draped in prismatic robes and crowed with a pharaohs pshent.

“Come…” Nyarlathotep beckoned.

Clair did as she was commanded, but before she reached the specter she awoke in her normal bed in her normal home in normal Ulthar. For a time, she thought the visions were just a dream until they began following her in her waking hours. For sanity’s sake, she consulted Atal and he told her the dreams were messages from the gods, telling Clair that they demand her presence. What they could have wanted with a common Ultharian neither of them knew, but Clair knew it would be foolish to deny the gods. Atal gave her a map, pointing to the direction of Kadath, the dark city of the gods, and, after a long and sad farewell to her family, she was off with only her cat to keep her company.

Days later, she found herself sitting upon a rock on the bank of the Skai, seeing those nightmarish visions again. She stood against Azathoth and Nyarlathotep once more, this time silently waiting for them to vanish so she could move on. Her hand fell on Willow’s fur. The soft silky texture reminded her she was still in the material world and still alive. The nightmare ended, leaving Clair disturbed and tired. She glanced at Willow, who stared back and purred.

“We’ll be alright. We’ll fight through this to the end so I can go home and rest easy as I have before. We will survive.” Clair told herself. Her head tilted back. Her eyes sparkled with the billions of strange stars that decorated the dark sky. The moon stood out alongside the ringed worlds of the outer reaches. Her eyes drooped and fluttered. She desperately didn’t want to sleep, knowing what awaits her. “I’ll survive.” She whispered. She fell asleep next to the River Skai as the fireflies glided and illuminated the form of the resting adventurer and her friend.

By the next evening, she reached the edge of the Enchanted Wood. She couldn’t see past but a few feet into the tree’s as they gave way to the dark, but she was not afraid. “We’ll survive.” She told herself as well Willow. Together, they entered the forest.

 


	2. The Enchanted Woods

 

 _Like man, like gods; they are divided._  
_Upon a thousand souls, destiny is decided._

                         —Unkown

 

 

 

 

 

 

The crunching leaves beneath her boots was the only sound to be heard. No birds or cicadas graced the spaces between the trees with their songs, nor did the winds rustle the foliage. The dark green canopy of leaves above blocked most of the suns warming light, leaving little speckles of still sunlight scattered across the ground. Clair skimmed the twisted trees around her, searching for any possible sign of life while Willow prowled behind, looking for the same life that would serve him as food. Nothing moved. The Enchanted Wood was dead, it seemed, though that came to no surprise. All she ever heard about this place was how unsettling and "evil" the Wood was. The clusters of glowing, turquoise hued mushrooms added quite a bit to the eeriness, although Clair still thought they were wonderful to look at. They lined the rugged pathways like little, blistery lamps and crawled up the distorted trees in curled cords.

Clair whistled. Her long, high pitched tune echoed through the wood, becoming a lulling noise. The wood responded with silence. Her song had done nothing to stir the graveyard-quiet air.

Within time, Clair came across a humming creek that rolled and snaked through twisted stones and blackened dirt, falling over the ledges of uneven rock in tiny waterfalls. With little thought save for her subconscious need for hydration, she bowed at its side and partook of the crystalline water it provided. As she sipped the water (tasted a little mossy) from her cupped hands, she noticed a small fish out the corner of her eye, floating down the stream and emitting the rhythmic, beating glow that her father once said meant that the fish was lonely. It was a baby glowing koi, the same kind that swam beneath the waters of the Skai which this creek undoubtedly branched from. Clair’s stomach growled and she resolved to satisfy her hunger. She grabbed the young fish from the water and slammed it against a stone, killing it.

Her eyes fell onto Willow’s. The little gray cat blankly eyed her, wordlessly asking to be fed. He mewed, his tongue rolling out a little. She decided that her dear friend most likely needed the fish more. After all, there were surely other things to eat here in an evil forest.

She handed the koi to Willow who greedily consumed the whole thing in a rapid series of wet smacks.

There was a nearby boulder with a relatively flat surface, huddled between a diseased looking tree and the creek. Feeling it must have been suitable enough, Clair seated herself on the boulder, crossing her legs and leaning her head against the trunk of the tree. She could feel little bits of bark and fungus and clinging to her hair. It was hardly much to her though. Not long ago she was wearing a pretty fashionable Ultharian outfit, consisting of a green-and-yellow coat, a black scarf, red kilt wrapped around black trousers, and a pair of freshly tailored hiking boots. Now, only a week or two into her journey, that same outfit was filthy, tattered, faded, and covered in dirt stains galore. It was a shame too, considering how much she really liked the skirt.

She missed her family already. It was far from easy leaving them the way she did, but she managed. Her mother was particularly devastated by the development, learning that her only child was being haunted by things no one dared talk about and being summoned to Kadath. Father was more stoic about it, but he still made it clear he was heart too.

Between being informed of what she had to do and the departure, Clair had one night of rest in which, sadly, she had gotten little sleep. Clair never considered herself a brave girl, but she was curious, and the thoughts of what might await her—both good and bad—continuously stirred in her mind, keeping her awake. Where will I go? What will I see? What will I do?

Will I live?

She was raised in a mundane household, and thus never experienced anything more harrowing than being stung by funny looking caterpillars. And she got stung by caterpillars because she was curious enough to pick them up. Now she's on the doorstep of a whole new world and as scared as was, the infeasible wonders of the other regions outside of Skai kept her moving forward and looking everywhere and anywhere. Being someone who was relatively shameless, she took a lot of pride in walking right into the Enchanted Wood. Atal wouldn't have done that, and that boosted her humble little ego.

Willow meowed, drawing in Clair's attention. The cat was batting at a group of black ferns, comically giving Clair the impression that her buddy was challenging a plant. She laughed, watching Willow as he stood on his haunches, eyeing the fern with something akin to curiosity.

The loud snap of a breaking stick sounded, followed by the brief chirping of some animal. Clair and Willow both snapped their heads in different directions and silently waited for any other noises, hoping to Nodens that it wasn't anything hostile. It was most likely a squirrel, so Clair thought, but it was a rather odd sounding squirrel at that. Atal had failed to tell her what all might be hiding in the Enchanted Wood and, in addition, she had no other weapon other that her father's old hunting knife. Her hand fell of the leather-bound hilt, motivated entirely by reflexes honed in her rudimentary combat training. She could punch and maybe perform and effective kick—maybe—but other than that, she relied almost entirely on her dad's knife.

Other memories of Ulthar began to surface, brought on by the thoughts of the hundreds of lessons her father had provided when she was ten. All of them being crystal clear and vivid enough to make her believe she was actually living them again. She shut her eyes and felt the final embrace she gave her parents shortly before leaving Ulthar, possibly forever.

Clair began singing the Song of the Skai, which, in her culture, was to be done to show thanks to the god Nodens for the water he provides. It was one of the first songs she ever learned.

“Oh Nodens, oh Nodens, thy will is so kind.  
Give life to the walker with land left behind  
And water to quench us, oh Nodens so kind.  
We feast and we drink…”

Her singing was cut short with another sudden noise, this time being the rustling in some nearby shrubs. She quickly drew her knife, hearing the exhilarating ring of metal sliding against metal. She stood and took up her battle stance while Willow arched his back and hissed at the unseen stalker.

“Who's there?” Clair yelled. Her ears struggled to locate the source of the noise in the following silence. Nothing was to be seen. There were no longer any moving plants or entities that she could discern. Then, slowly emerging from nothing, she heard the rapid pitter-patter of tiny feet, along with a familiar fluttering language.

Zoogs... She thought

Her green eyes skimmed the dark spaces between the trees and the cluttering plants on the forest floor. Like motionless fireflies, several dozen pairs of red eyes suddenly emerged and peered from the crevices of the forest, but before Clair could say anymore, the horde of tiny creatures darted out their hiding places and ran along the ground on all fours, scampering towards Clair at dizzying speeds. The Zoogs surrounded Clair on all sides and stood on their hind legs, pointing crude spear and sword like weapons at the intruder. Their globule eyes regarded the girl with mixed fear and contempt. Their long, fuzzy ears leaned back and their yellowed canines viciously showed from behind snarling lips. There were easily hundreds of them. Clair stood no chance against them.

“I was only passing. I promise.” Clair assured. She looked down to see Willow in attack position and picked him up to assure he doesn’t kill any Zoogs. The last thing she needed to do now was further provoke an army of one of the most dangerous creatures in the Skai Region. "We mean no harm.”

The Zoogs looked among each other, whispering in their own language. Out of the crowd, a very large Zoog (relatively speaking) approached, crawling between the rows of dwarfed brothers. Like the others, he had a myriad of weapons strapped to a hemp holster around his torso, but unlike the rest he wore polished wooden armor that half concealed the ragged fur that was deliberately shaved in a way similar to tattoos. Despite being only a foot in height, the aggressive looking creature managed to intimidate the Ultharian.

The large Zoog stood on its hind legs, letting it's forepaws drop in front of it. It looked Clair in the eye and chirped in a raspy voice that sounded something like a rabid pig. “Your name?” it grunted in broken English.

Clair was dumbstruck, and it took her a moment to think of the appropriate response. She never heard of a Zoog that spoke the human tongue. She was unsure whether or not she even heard the Zoog ask what he had asked. It seemed a little unreal.

“I…uh…” she stuttered.

The Zoog narrowed its eyes and twitched its ears. It squeaked again, quickly unsheathing the spear held at its side. “Name!” It yelled again.

“Uh…Clair of Ulthar. And this is Willow.” After a brief survey of the Zoog army, Clair continued. “Wha…what is your name.”

The Zoog remained silent for a moment, searching the human face for treachery. His marble-like eyes examining the towering figure of the human. After letting out a shrill noise that sounded like a scoff, the large Zoog turned to speak with a nearby comrade and shortly turned back to Clair. “I Nik’Onyo, General Zoog." He introduced, his poor English getting under Clair's skin. "I take you to Elders. They decide. Resist and die.”

Nik’Onyo turned and signaled his guest/prisoner to follow. The Zoog army circled the girl, a few training their weapons on her heel tendons (whether or not their blades cloud pierce her boots, she had no clue, but she didn't want to test that) and guided her along like a sheep.

After hiking along a winding trail that snaked through hundreds of trees and boulders, Clair, Willow, and the army of Zoogs arrived in a small (by human standards) clearing in the forest. Sunlight poured in through the open forest roof, illuminating a ring of crudely carved stones and idols. The larger ones—being as tall as Clair herself—stood along the border between the forest and the clearing; the smaller ones spiraling inward to the center where an anvil-shaped boulder rested. On top of this Boulder and hunched between burning incense bowls sat thee elderly Zoogs. They had long, beard-like whiskers that draped to the grassy forest floor and were covered from head to toe in pieces of gold jewelry and tattered crimson cloths that made them resemble mad human priests. The central elder casually chirped to Nik’Onyo as he knelt before him.  
Nik’Onyo raised his snout to the elder and spoke to him in his own tongue. The elder, seeming to be interested, looked up at Clair with milky eyes as Nik’Onyo spoke. The old Zoog shifted his jaw to and fro in a contemplative way with each fluttering word from the general. The elder suddenly raised a palm to the Zoog general, silencing him mid sentence. The elder pointed to Clair and told his general one last thing, to which he nodded.

Nik’Onyo looked up at Clair. “Elder PaQuaa talk you. I translate.”

“Okay.” Clair nodded, kneeling on the ground before the elder upon the general's urging. Elder PaQuaa chuckled and began squeaking out a jumble of Zoogian words, complemented by frequent hand gestures. Doing this, the old Zoog resembled an elderly human. Clair tried not to laugh. As promised, Nik’Onyo translated.

“Clair human violate Zoog border, but all forgiven if Clair human give reason for intrusion.”

It took Clair a moment to piece together the sloppy sentence, but once she understood what was asked of her, she said “I mean to go to Kadath where the gods are rumored to live. I was merely passing through. I sincerely hope I did not disturb anything.” Clair said as Nik’Onyo translated.

For a moment, PaQuaa sat in silence giving the other two elders sidelong glances as if they had something to do with the matter. They were as quiet as the grave, not even giving the human a glance. Clair wondered if they were just there for show. “Worry not.” PaQuaa laughed. “Pass Wood at will Clair. Tread careful with cat. Dyu’me lurk.”

“Dyu’me?” Clair repeated, unsure she pronounced it right.

“Long ago. War between cat and Zoog thwarted by hero Carter.” PaQuaa said (through Nik'Onyo). Clair recognized who the elder was speaking of. She read the stories of him when she was a little girl. Randolph Carter, who descended from another dimension, journeyed through this realm in search of Kadath many decades ago. He aimed to uncover the fabled “Sunset City”—which he supposedly saw in his dreams—and live there for eternity, but ultimately failed. Along the way, so it was rumored, he stopped an impending war between an angered clan of Zoogs and the Cats of Ulthar.

PaQuaa continued. “Zoogs" gesturing around the clearing, "learn to live with cat, but some still hate cat. Clan who hate cat separate and become Dyu’me Clan who wish death to cat.” PaQuaa pointed at Willow. “Willow in danger. No let Dyu’me kill. We escort.”

“Thank you Elder PaQuaa.” Clair bowed. "Why, may I ask, would you wish to help?"

PaQuaa tapped his chest. "Knew Carter. Loved cat. Cat give Zoog knowledge and wisdom. Open doors of outside world and lift Zoog higher. We better race now." After a translation pause, PaQuaa continued. "Stay Clair. You need eat. We make moon-wine and Yugo-stew.”

She smiled. Clair was sincerely honored by the Zoog’s hospitality. Never would she have thought the small rodent-creatures to be a civilized and generous race, even considering their sinister history. “I could not thank you enough, your highness.” Clair nodded. PaQuaa responded with a chuckle, his white eyes a little less condescending.

After sundown, the Zoogs fed Clair and Willow their finest meals (multiplied ten-fold to accommodate her size). Along with wooden mugs of watered down moon-wine, she dined on soups made from berries and glowing fungi as well as odd pastry things made of gods-know-what that, oddly enough, tasted much like the homemade strawberry treats her mother use to make. They clearly weren't strawberries, but Clair thought it was best not to question what was really in them. They dined beneath one of the alien moon-trees that peppered the forest, it's splayed branches—adorned with spiked orbs instead of leaves—hung and sagged above them like a neglected roof. Some hung so low they touched the ground, almost completing the impression of a rudimentary shelter. With the sun gone, the creeping strands of blue-glowing fungus was the only thing to break the darkness.

A few curious Zoog scholars eagerly questioned her (a translator making the interaction possible) about life in Ulthar and the ways of human beings. She answered and in return she queried about life in Zoog culture. She learned much including some of their spiritual beliefs, language, and history—especially the years following Carter's intrusion on Zoog life.

Clair and Willow finished their meals within time, not feeling as full as they would like, but satisfied nonetheless. The scholars left them alone, exchanging random bits of English in directionless conversations. Clair and Willow slept under the moon tree that night. There, in her dark dreams, she saw the Crawling Chaos again.

The next morning, Clair met with Elder PaQuaa for the final time, each taking the same places in the clearing they held before. Nearby, Nik’Onyo was preparing his militia. He organized an army of about two-hundred Zoog’s, each armed with a spear and a bow-and-arrow set, to carry on the task of escorting the travelers. Even from no further than a few meters, the general's commanding squeaks were barely audible.

“Fwithatoma.” Clair thanked PaQuaa, using the Zoogian word of appreciation. Though she probably didn't pronounce it right (PaQuaa seemed unbothered anyhow), Clair hoped it would show the elder that she was beginning to learn and respect Zoog culture. And it wasn't an empty gesture either. Clair was sincerely fascinated and enthralled by the Zoog's world, which was radically different from the one presented in Carter's stories. It was evident that the Zoog’s have evolved quite a bit since the time of Randolph Carter in both social structure and mannerisms. They blended in nearly perfectly with the natural surroundings, but Clair began noticing towers made of finely carved wood and decorated with moss and glowing fungi. The Enchanted Wood had become the city of the Zoogs, and may one day even rival Celephais in beauty. Like humans, Zoogs will always have conflict and wars, but they’ve become a species that mirror humanity in almost every way, for the bad and the good.

PaQuaa sounded an awkward chirp, furrowed his fuzzy bows, and motioned for the girl to wait. Clair did, curious of the Zoog's motives. After another chirp, the Zoog made a series of noises that, remarkably, sounded much like “You're welcome, Clair.” Though PaQuaa's attempt at human dialect was broken, Clair couldn't help smiling. After a warmly human chuckle, PaQuaa chirped again "Take care…". As a parting gesture, Clair offered the elder her index finder, and Paquaa gladly shook it with his tiny paw. She would have continued with her farewell, but suddenly heard something zip past her. The nearly inaudible sound lasted only a third of a second, but was enough to make Clair skim the area around her. She saw nothing, For a moment, she thought she heard a bug until she looked down at PaQuaa and saw that he was impaled through the chest with a Zoog-sized arrow. The Elder gazed at his chest in wide-eyed horror. He gasped as his paws scratched at his blood drenched robe. His life fluids pooled around him and began dripping down the anvil rock on which he sat

“PaQuaa!” Clair gasped as she reached for the Elder to keep him from falling. The Zoog landed in her hands, blood flowing between her fingers. PaQuaa weakly chirped, trying to remove the arrow. Nik'Onyo, entering the clearing, screeched in anger as he scampered towards his fallen leader. Other astonished Zoogs followed.

“CAT!!” Clair heard the high-pitched cry cut the forest silence. She turned to see the branches above covered in a thousand-strong army of menacing Zoogs (much larger than the one Nik’Onyo assembled). The most predominate one stood on a low hanging branch just nine meters behind Clair. He was much taller and more heavily built than a normal zoog and had long, spiky fur that was a polished jet-black. In his paws, he held an empty bow and a stone blade. His large, red eyes looked directly at Willow in hatred, a hideous snarl-like grin cutting his snout. The cat repaid the leer in kind along with a low hiss.

Nik'Onyo leapt onto the elders' stone seat as Clair carefully laid the dying PaQuaa before him. The general only paid his leader a brief glance before focusing his fury onto the black Zoog. Nik'Onyo aimed his own bow at assailant and spewed a strain of unpleasant sounding fluttering words. "Nei'eha noko, rehkal-vath!"

The black Zoog squeaked something that sounded like a mad chuckle. "Necvha? Hola-cadth Eehra."

"Leave…" Nik'Onyo said to Clair in a shrill whisper before refocusing on his standoff.

Clair stood, keeping Willow wrapped in her arms. "What's happening?" She asked.

“Dyu’me,” Nik”Onyo said grimly. “Leave NOW!”

"HIAH-SALIKA!" screeched the black Zoog, leveling his claws at Nik'Onyo. He turned to his army, gesturing at them with a sweep of his arm.  
“Theyza-mo-gha! Weif-en yon!" He screeched at his troops before leveling his weapon at Willow once more. "KILL THE CAT!” Upon his orders, Zoog soldiers leaped and rained down from the branches, landing hard on their spring-like feet and surrounding Clair and the few ally Zoogs near her. Clair turned her back to the Zoog assault as Nik’Onyo’s militia moved in to attack, charging at the Dyu’me, hoisting their weapons and piercing the air with a shrill battle cry. They met their enemies and immediately began stabbing and impaling without mercy. The agonized cries of both Nik'Onyo's troops and the Dyu'me echoed, painfully reminding Clair of the millions of dying beings in her nightmare. Enemy archers fired a volley of arrows upon Clair as she ran and leapt over the charging soldiers of either side. Numerous arrows, too small to inflict real damage, pierced Clair’s back and forced her to stumble forward, but she quickly righted herself. She couldn't stand to look back as she fled the clearing, pressing through intertwined thorn bushes and trampling clusters of luminous fungus. She held Willow tighter as she sped up.

With every hasty footfall—the thud of boots impacting hard ground and the crunching of dried leaves—she got further and further away from the battle. The varied assortment of Zoog cries faded in the distance, but she somehow knew she was being followed. They wanted Willow dead, and she rightfully assumed they wouldn't loose sight of their quarry so easily. In the rapidly passing tree branches she could see the blurred shadows of darting Zoogs keeping pace with her. Their shrill calls abruptly filled the air when she began to slowdown. Her tired legs almost gave up on her. Willow mewed in apparent agitation, his ears twitching at every Zoogian word and head turning when a Zoog came within sight.

Without warning, one of the Zoogs fell from the trees and landed square on the back of her neck. Instinctively, she flailed her torso and grabbed the rodent by the leg, violently pulling it off and flinging it to the ground like a toy. At that, more Zoogs skittered from the trees, most assembling in a dense mass before her. They quickly readied their arrows and fired another volley on her. She stopped and turned, feeling again the sting of a dozen tiny arrows in her skin. The Zoogs pounced at her feet, clawing and gnawing at her until she fell. She still held Willow tight, covering his fragile head with her hands.

"Leave us alone!" She pleaded in futility.

Out of the assembly, the black Zoog, their leader, strode. He leered at the felled duo with disgust—jaws twisted in a grimace and head slightly cocked—and readied one more arrow, aiming it directly at Willow’s forehead.

“Die cat.” The Leader growled, but when he fired, Willow launched himself out of Clair’s arms. He leapt through the air at just the right angle to strike and deflect the incoming projectile, which landed harmlessly in the dead leaves on the ground. Willow landed hard atop a Dyu’me, killing it instantly with a loud snap of tiny bones, and then quickly proceeded to pounce the other Zoogs, locking them in his jaws or dismembering them with his claws. Within a few bloody, blurry seconds, the entire group was dead save for the Leader, leaving him alone with the blood-covered cat. The fearless Zoog threatened Willow with a hiss—undoubtedly meant to mock Willow's own—and leveled his blade at the cat. He charged, but Willow quietly leaped out of the way of the incoming Zoog. Before the Leader could turn again, Willow had already swiped his claws across the Leaders chest, forcing blood out of the Zoog. As a cascade of viscous crimson stained the black Zoog's abdomen, Willow swiped again, this time across the Zoog’s face, removing an eye and a sizable portion of his face, revealing the pink stained skull beneath. The Dyu’me leader gagged, purred in pain and fell to the dirt, defeated and butchered.

But Willow was not done yet. He stamped one paw of the Zoog's chest wound, forcing out a cry, and clamped his teeth around the Zoogs neck. The Zoog cried out in pain as Willow bit deeper until his neck snapped with a wet pop. The Dyu’me leader lied dead and mangled at Willow’s paws, and the only respect the cat paid was an indifferent glance.

Clair was speechless. She had never seen Willow, let alone any cat, act so violently, and she never would have expected such violence either. Especially from Willow. How a cat could be such an expert fighter after living in a docile and uneventful home from birth to present was beyond her. However, upon second thought, she didn't think it was much of a surprise. Cats were, in the end, wild creatures who's ancestors were especially known for their savage bloodlust. They were the children of Bast. The pieces of a goddess. They were an unsolvable enigma and that was that.

Clair considered for a moment returning to the battlefield out of guilt, but not only would Nik’Onyo not allow that, but doing so would endanger Willow even more. She felt bad leaving the Zoogs in such disarray considering how much they had had done for her, but she had a purpose.

She closed her eyes and saw Nyarlathotep again behind her eye lids, beckoning her ever forward. When Clair opened her eyes, she looked down at Willow. The bloody cat looked up at the human girl with wide eyes and a gently swaying tail as if he was still innocent.

“Let’s leave. We have a long journey ahead of us.” Clair said as she walked forward with Willow trotting at her heels. Leaving as quickly as possible, they travelled through silent woods the rest of the day, encountering no more Zoogs.


	3. Jewels on the Horizon

_When the gods forged this world of beauty,  
They denied its impending withering in futility…_

_—Unknown_

 

 

 

 

Clair cringed at the blinding sunlight as she emerged out of the dark Enchanted Wood. Blocking the sun with her arm, she rapidly winked her eyes in attempt to readjust them. It barely worked, so she spent a long five minutes or so sitting in the grass (far enough away from the edge of the Wood that she would feel safe) with Willow curled beside, waiting until the world was a little more than a ill defined picture. Being blinded by the sun, to her, was an oddly humorous sign that she was in the forest for too long. Within time, her vision returned to normal and she quickly made out the expanse of green hills before her. Aside from a few boulders and a lone oak tree, there was nothing else to be seen. For some reason, it all looked more like a painting in the afternoon light. The branches of the one tree swayed a little, but otherwise there was no movement. Oddly, not even the grass shifted in the negligible wind.

She looked back at the edge of the Wood, so dark it starkly contrasted with the rest of the vivid green environment. The edge of the Wood was a crisply defined border where brooding trees stood like sentinels on one side and the base of the hills sloped upward on the other. Looking in the wild clusters of ferns and shrubs beneath the trees, Clair tried to find any sign that the Dy'ume were still following her. No red eyes to be seen and no fluttering tongue to be heard. Good.

She turned her back on the forest, surveying the hills in curiosity. She unfurled the map and spread it out on the grass, letting the sun illuminate the intricate and colorless depiction of her world. She quickly found the dark blotch North of Ulthar that was labeled "Thee Enchanted Wood of the Zoogs". Depending on which side she had come out of, she would have now been at the base of Hatheg-Kla, the Southern portion of Kled, or back in the plains of the Skai. Considering the total absence of an earthy mountain and the all-too-familiar fields of home, she deduced she was in Kled, which was exactly where she needed to be. The map indicated that the River Skai should continue somewhere nearly. Another brief survey and she didn't see the river.

“Gods damn it. I hope I’m not lost.” She muttered to herself. Willow meowed as if he knew what she was talking about. If they had remained on the path they were supposed to take, then the River Skai should be visible, but it wasn’t. The thought of being stranded in gods-know-where was disheartening, but quickly dissipated when she examined the suns position and discovered she was still going North-East like the map indicated. Logically, the hills must be hiding the Skai somewhere.

Clair quickly scaled and surmounted the nearest hill—a rocky looking thing that looked more like an immense boulder half buried in a carpet of grass and weeds—and began scanning the uneven horizon. Hands on her brow, she slowly turned her gaze across the hills with the smoothness of a cat hunting it's prey. Endless green speckled with patches of brown dominated her vision, but no trace of the River.

"Dammit." She swore. Willow mewed in a curiously mimicking way.

She then climbed the next hill over, a taller one so steep in places that she had to crawl on her hands and feet. The skin-breaking grain of pebbles on her palms and the sticky smell of dulnos nectar brought back moderately fond memories of when she used to crawl over the remains of Hathegan stone huts in her youth. Willow followed behind, gracefully scaling the hill with ease. At the top, she caught a slightly different view of the world, but it made just enough of a difference. Between two distant hills, she caught a glimpse of a shimmer. She squinted and could faintly see the reflective waters of a river. She smiled and pointed towards the Skai. “That way.” She said as if there were other English-speakers with her.

After a laborious three-hour trek through the mid-day heat, she finally stood on the bank of the Skai again. Where fungus-encrusted stones and wilted grasses once stood now towered overgrown cattails and nameless, blue-hued plants over the lapping edge of the Skai's waters that almost perfectly reflected the images of the plants drooping above. The same bird-sized dragonflies that pestered the natives of her home darted to and fro over the river's currents, occasionally performing steep and abrupt dives to the surface of the water before quickly bouncing back into the air once they kissed the water. Tor-Noko pads (a much larger variant of the more familiar lily pads) lied half on the banks and half in the water like sunbathing toads. It was on one of these Tor-Nokos that Clair decided to seat herself. She removed her boots, rolled up her trouser legs, and dipped her blistered feet into the water, savoring the coolness it brought to her aching heels. Willow decided to crouch atop a nearby rock, well away from the water—like any cat would—and passively eyed the passing shoals of glowing koi and Ek trout. In her meditative state, Clair finally noticed the dry feeling in the back of her throat. She had not realized how exhausted and dehydrated she was until she began swallowing handfuls of water. The water tasted of algae, but was nonetheless refreshing. Taking advantage of the situation, she continued to shovel the Skai's water into her mouth until the taste of algae stuck to her tongue. Eventually, Willow decided to partake of the Skai as well, consuming water in a way much less hasty than how the human drank. As she moved about, the pain running up her back made her remember that she had been pierced with several tiny arrows. She reached over her shoulder, grabbed a few between her fingers, and slowly pulled them out. She felt the little arrow heads pull free some of her skin as they snapped out, forcing a squeal out of her. Willow jerked his head in her direction, seemingly concerned. Blood trickled down her back in small streams. The wounds stung as she tried to scratch them. She could tell there were still some arrows impaled in her lower back, a few dangerously close to her spine. She looked at the bloody bunch of arrows in her hand and figured they went no deeper than a centimeter and a half, which was good. With the seemingly minor injuries, infection seemed less probable. She tossed the arrows in the water, and watched them drift away, leaving minute traces of blood in the current. She was happy that that chapter of her quest was over. She then pulled out the rest, screaming in pain as she did so and throwing them out likewise.

From her bag she removed a small leather container of alcohol and dabbed some in her palm. She reached into the back of her shirt and tried to treat her injuries. The burn of alcohol on the opened flesh was satisfying and within a few minutes the pain was almost unnoticeable.

After scrubbing the blood out of Willow's fur, she stretched out on the Tor-Noko and let the sun wash over her. Willow meowed and mimicked her actions, laying next to Clair. Unintentionally, they both dozed off.

When she awoke, the sun was nearing the four-o-clock position. ️Half gazing upward as if the sun itself was clock, she figured she was asleep for no more than an hour or two. It was hardly much time to waste.

Slipping on her boots, she rose to her feet and continued onward down the uneventful path aside the Skai.

Nightfall had eventually come, overcoming the blank sky and the omnipotent daylight. The stars, planets, and ever dominant waning moon rose once more and hung high above Kled, filing the firmament with their celestial colors and constellations. The river was aglow with a school of glowing-koi and the floating sparks of fireflies. At times, when the shoal would number in the hundreds, the river would glow with the hues of dim rainbow, blended with the black of unlighted waters. As the surrounding world quickly faded into the black of the night, the glowing Skai and the persistent swarm of fireflies were the only terrestrial lights left, casting their green and iridescent glow over the overgrowth on the river's banks.

She took a short break from walking, in the meantime consulting the map. She sat crosslegged on the bank, map spread in her hands. It was hardly bright enough to actually read, but she had become familiar with the faint images and symbols enough to get the gist. Inked depictions of trails and cities were stained a dim green as the fireflies drifted like fairies over her head. Her eye fell on the area of the map marked "Kled" and shifted upward toward the ominous drawing marked as "Kadath" before skimming the empty area that represented the Cerenerian Sea. The map indicated that the port city of Thran (one of the three capitals of Kled) was nearby, some fifty kilometers from where the Skai branched into the River Oukranos. The Oukranos led directly to Thran and flowed past, emptying into the Cerenerian. If she simply followed the river then it would take her right to its gates. Once there, she planned on finding a way to sail to Inquanok, a city not far from the base of Leng. From Leng, of course, would be the grueling hike to Kadath.

A disturbing thought crossed Clair’s mind as she walked; simple as it was, it gave her a heavy feeling: What if she had died in the Enchanted Wood? What if Willow died? The fabricated images of her and Willow lying dead on the leaf-laden forest floor as Zoogs reveled and laughed to her passing haunted her mind like a malevolent specter. It was a scary thing to silently contemplate her own death, and it was made worse by the thought that that incident—so sudden and unexpected—occurred within the first few days of her journey. Countless miles and countless more possible obstacles lied ahead of her. Now reminded that death was a possibility, the probability of her violent end at the whims of gods-know-what clung to the back of her mind.

The sound of Willow's tiny footfalls padding against the grass caught her ear. Looking down at the cat that strode beside her own pacing feet, a sense of fear crept into her as she thought of all the possible dangers to Willow's wellbeing. Death wasn't an option, she thought. She'll survive this and go home one day. She'll grow up to inherit father's farm and forget all about this silly journey to Kadath long after its finished. And before all else, she'll assure that Willow goes unharmed.

…come…, She heard Nyarlathotep once more, his gentle, hissing voice pulsing deep within her mind. She hoped, for her sanity's sake, this quest wasn’t for nothing.

Again, Clair looked down at Willow, the cat she had loved and cared for ever since his birth. She has to be there for him—or him for her—no matter what. “No. Death is not an option.” She whispered. “We’ll survive.”

Another hour passed and Clair's feet we're beginning get sore. The glowing koi and the fireflies had long since departed—possibly to their nests to get some sleep (which Clair, sadly, envied)—leaving Clair in the dead of night. Unable to see, she walked slowly so she would minimize the risk of tripping. Already she had toppled forward once, landing right in the Skai's (or maybe it was the Oukranos now? She didn't know) waters and drenching her right to the skin. Thankfully, the night air wasn't cold, but it was still uncomfortable the way her clothes stuck to her. Willow—according to the swift and effortless sounds his movement made—didn't seem to have a problem navigating, but of course he was a cat with the innate ability to see in the dark, so there should have been no surprise there.

Then, suddenly, she began seeing a faint light across the horizon, like a halo lingering over the hills. Though it looked it, the light wasn't completely white. Clair could see dim rays of red and violet mingled within. She stopped in her tracks and blankly stared at the display, head slightly cocked. She pondered what it could have been for a moment—fearing the odd possibilities that came to mind—but realized she was an idiot for not knowing any sooner. She quickly and clumsily climbed another hill, Willow darting behind her in attempt to keep up. When she reached the top, she froze.

Between the black sky and even blacker land sat a thin line of star-like lights. A myriad of stagnant colors mixed with the pin-pricks of unsteady white light and stood in profound relief against the dark. Some of these lights reached towards sky in thin strands much like towers. The radiant colors reflected off of the shadowed surfaces of the clouds, creating layers of iridescent light in the heavens. The Oukranos River flower right towards it—as promised—staying visible as the lights reflected on it's waters, beautifully mimicking the clouds.

Her eyes widened and jaw stiffened as she beheld the distant lights of Thran standing out against the night sky like jewels. It’s spires and towers sat perfectly on the now flat horizon like a crown.

Enthralled by the sight, she sat down in the grass next to Willow, silently wondering what Thran looked like in daylight. Nothing in the Skai region was this large or this bright. Not even Nir, the unofficial capital, was half the size of the glittering metropolis before her. This was her first time seeing a real city and, if she made it there, it would be her first being in one. The mere thought of walking the streets of Thran was enough to give her chills.

She stood mesmerized for uncounted moments before a non-Thran related thought passed through her head. _How long have I been up?_ Against her better judgment, she had stayed up half the night. Incidentally, she was getting tired. Her eyelids could barely stay open.

The moon shined in the apex of the sky, spreading its light once the clouds parted. The temperature fell when a cold wind swept through the hills. Through the stirring air, the lights of Thran seemed to waver.

When the wind grew fiercer, the air chilled her still-damp clothes, forcing her to uselessly hug her arms around herself. She groaned as her skin seemed to freeze, but then the wind died down and sighed in relief. She hoped she wouldn't die of hyperthermia over night.

She leaned backward until her back was rested comfortably on the thick patch of grass. Curling in on herself, knees against her chest, she quickly and calmly afell asleep and entered the world of dream.

To no surprise—in the abysmal and suffocating night of the ultimate void—Nyarlathotep and Azathoth were there.


	4. Outside of Thran

 

 

 

 

As the day passed and Clair continued her march through the out-lands, the towers of Thran gradually grew closer and closer until she could faintly see the arched windows and the decorative runes and patterns on the outer walls. She reckoned she was still four or five kilometers from the gates, but at that distance the golden sheen of the metal spires was clearly visible. The towers stood like erect blades stabbing at the overcast sky with banners or flags flapping in the wind, some bearing the sigil of the Kled Sovereignty. Some of the spires were so thin they resembled pine needles standing on end. Those happened to be the tallest and gave Thran a somewhat menacing yet fascinating look.

More than once she had to stop at the banks of the Oukranos, feeding on koi or drinking it's waters, and each time she kept her gaze in the general direction of Thran, wondering to herself what it was like beyond those walls. Her father would often regale her of his jaunts outside the borders of Ulthar when he was in the local militia and she would listen with deep interest. He never claimed to have been to Thran, much less anywhere in Kled, but he's been to nearby Dylath-Leen and claims that it's no different than any of the other major metropolises. Enormous towers and crowded streets were always the most noticeable feature, but her father often remembered the more pleasant things like the myriad of gardened city squares, the theaters, the avenues of exquisite shops, and others of the like. She's lived in Ulthar all her life and never experienced anything even remotely like a "theater" or any of the other things she was told of, but that was bound to make the experience in Thran a little more interesting. She assumed she would reach the main gates of the city by midnight given she went without sleep, but till then, the farms and small villages along Thran’s outskirts kept her company.

Along the cobblestone road she came to follow, there were numerous cottages and cabins housing elderly folk. The buildings were many, but spaced very far from one another in a sort of passive aloofness. The general impression was like that of Ulthar (a pang of homesickness rose in her heart) but the buildings were composed of primarily stone brick and shingles rather than the wood paneled walls and thatched roofs of home. Most of the people seemed indifferent to Clair’s visit, but many welcomed her with a warming smile. Those who did were the incredibly aged variety who occupied themselves trimming their uniformed gardens or lounging on their shaded porches. The villages were also pleasant with numerous gaily painted houses shrouded in thick gardens. Roses and sunflowers filled the air with a sweet scent like the odor of honey, and a mild breeze carried it across the whole town. Between these homes snaked dirt paths and untamed expanses of wheat. Above it all loomed the copper colored spires of Thran, protruding over the hills and half concealed in the haze of the atmosphere.

She became so distracted wistfully taking in the atmosphere she neglected her groaning stomach. She didn't notice it until it turned for the fourth or fifth time, and that's when she fully realized she hadn't eaten anything wholesome since the Enchanted Wood. A week (two week?) long diet of fish, wild onions, and algae flavored river water wasn't exactly good for her health. She was brought out of her daze by the smoky scent of roasting pork, which seemed to waft out of nowhere. Her nose tilted upward and she took hard sniffs of the air. She began to follow—almost automatically—the mouthwatering scent until she was at the door of an old and blandly colored house that wasn't in as good condition as the other hovels. There was a creaky, rusted sign hanging above, swaying in the breeze, that read simply "BUTCHER'S SHOP AND GRILL". Without hesitation, she stepped through the door. The place was completely empty, devoid of human life and furnished only with a few aged table sets and an oil lantern hanging from the arched ceiling. Behind the clerk-less counter, she could see the stock room where multiple slabs of beef and whole pigs hung, emitting the familiar rank of dead flesh.

She rung she service bell once and waited a minute before speaking. “Hello? I wish to buy something! Is there anybody here?”

No response.

She rung the bell again. “Hello?”

Still no response.

With a pout she looked around the stockroom (what little of it she could see from where she stood) and still saw no one. She instantly lost patience and left. As soon as she stepped outside she caught the scent of pork again. It was obviously coming from the butchers, so the fact that there was nobody there baffled her. Curving around the corner of the building and hopping a low fence (she was too hungry to care about trespassing) she quickly found the relatively small backyard, borders on the other three sides by dwarfing pastures where cattle lazily strode and chicken coops slumped. Amid the backyard blazed a lit grill with whole sides of ribs roasting on top. From the licking flames emitted wafts of smoke that flew where ever the wind chose. To her fortune, the smoke billowed right towards her and she caught the full scent of the roasting food. Her primal hunger almost made her forget that if she chose to take the meat, it would be theft.

She looked around the yard to see if anybody was around, but once again saw no one. Just a grill and some freshly cooked meat. Her stomach growled again and she seriously considered stealing the ribs, but old Dalia had taught her better. If you want something, ask.

“If there’s anybody here, say something.” She yelled, making sure her voice was heard throughout. Like an imitating parrot, Willow howled loudly.

No response.

"I know someone's here. You left a lit fire!" She yelled again, jabbing a finger at the grill. She believed herself. Who in the nine hells would leave home and just leave perfectly good food roasting out in the open? After a moment's pause, she smirked and yelled "Say nothing if you are okay with me taking these ribs.”

No response. Good.

Snickering to herself, she quickly pulled off a rib for herself and smaller piece of the meat for Willow, taking care not to scotch her fingers on the fire.

“Mighty hungry ye are to steal a man’s meal.” A deep, throaty voice sounded from seemingly nowhere.

Turning and stumbling to face the presumed direction of her visitor—and letting out an embarrassingly high yelp of surprise—She saw a large, potbellied Pargian man wearing a butcher’s apron standing in the open backdoor of the shop. Through his grizzled iron-gray beard, she could barely see his amused smirk.

“I’m so sorry sir!” She frantically apologized and replacing the rib in the grill. “I was just so hungry and there was no one at the store and…”

“Tis alright me lass.” The butcher chuckled, holding up his palms. His smirk became much more friendly as he took a few more step closer. “I said nothing, so ye can sample the ribs.”

Clair paused for moment, remembering what she said earlier. “Oh yeah. That’s right.”

“Ye can have some of the smoked ribs fer free, but if you want fresh meat you have to pay fer it.” The butcher said. "Got a fine variety here, I tell ye. Perfect for a traveler such a ye self. And for a reasonable price, if I do say so myself."

Clair almost considered asking how he knew she was foreign, but instead let an enthused “Oh, of course!” She resumed eating her rib, snatching it back off the grill in ill concealed greed. “How much? The price, I mean.”

“Varies per cut. I’ll show ye the inventory me self.” He started towards the backdoor, but immediately turned back. “By the way, my apologies for not being at the counter earlier.” He patted his oversized belly and chuckled. “I’m a wee bit slow.”

Shortly, Clair and Willow were back in the store and the butcher was properly placed behind the counter looking through the hanging slabs of meat, whipping his greasy hands on his apron. “So, what will ye have, me lass?” he asked, not taking his eyes off the slabs.

“Do you have any more pork ribs?” Clair asked, hardly able to contain her excitement. Then remembering her need for reserves she added "And jerky?"

“No jerky. Just fresh cuts is all I have, but I always have pork, I assure ye. What size?"

She pouted and took a look at the inventory. She pointed at a foot-long slab of fresh looking ribs, dangling from a hook. "That one." She said nodding at her choice.

"Cooked?"

"Yes."

"For here or are ye leaving with it?"

"What do you mean?"

"Ye eating here?"

Slightly confused, she turned to regard the dining tables organized throughout the floor, who's purpose started to make more sense. There were no dine-in places in Ulthar, so eating in any other place other than ones own home was almost unheard of. "For here."

"That will be three silvers if ye have it.”

As Clair shuffled around her bag looking for the coins her mother gave her, the butcher unhooked the slab and carried to the back, presumably to the same grill she had stolen from. Clair dropped three silver coins on the counter and seated herself at a random table. Willow leaped onto its surface and stared at his human companion for a moment before proceeding to groom his nether regions. Clair casually wondered why cats are so shameless with their bathing while humans always insist on privacy.

"So what brings ye all the way from li'l Ulthar, lass? And why ye alone?"

Clair looked and saw that the butcher had already returned. He leaned against Clair's side of the counter with his massive arms crossed, patiently awaiting a reply.

"How did you know I was from Ulthar?" Clair suspected that she should have been alarmed, but wasn't.

The butcher nodded at Willow. "Ye got a cat. And ye are wearin' Ulthar garms. I tell ye lass, ye stand out like a watermelon in a bushel of apple."

Clair let her head drop and skimmed her ragged coat and skirt, which were both stitched with yellow arabesque-Hathegan designs that were common among young women in Ulthar. She shrugged and propped her filthy boots up on the table (a very unladylike thing to do). "I guess I do." She paused to reconsider what the butcher asked if her. She was hesitant to tell him she was going to Kadath. If the Pargian man didn't thing she was insane for traveling to a place that was largely considered a fable, then he would surely shun her and deny her service for fear of being affiliated with evil doings. Kadath and its gods were deeply feared throughout the world, even by skeptics. "I'm visiting my aunt. She's lives here."

"Let me guess." The butcher smiled. "Misses Li Shiung, isn't it? Ye two look alike, I reckon."

"Li Shiung?"

"No, I suppose?"

"No." The named sounded like that of an oriental, who's cultures were never confined to one region but randomly scattered about. Though Clair herself wasn't oriental, she's been told that she has the features of one, such as the narrow eyes and black, silky hair. The only uncharacteristic thing was her vivid, almost glowing green irises that often made her eyes look much wider than they were. Her parents were both white; his father a blonde and her mother brunette, so Clair's exotic look was often considered a hereditary defect.

After a half hour of idle talk, the butcher shuffled outback to check the ribs and came back (much to Clair's joy) a minute later carrying a metal tray with the charred brown slab resting on top. The moment it was visible—and when the wispy trails of smoke carrying the smell of pepper could be sensed—she speed walked to the counter and grabbed the plate, pausing to hand the butcher a tip (whether it was a silver or a pence she didn't notice nor did she care). The man took up the coin and pocketed it, afterward asking "Ye care for a drink?"

"Do you have water?"

He nodded and pulled a dented water pitcher out from under the counter, along with a stained glass. He poured her a cup and she was quickly off to her meal, splitting it seventy-thirty between herself and Willow.

Before long, Clair was on the road again with the taste of pepper and char still lingering in her mouth. Strands of meat clung between her teeth, so while she occupied herself by walking and gazing towards Thran, she occasionally scrapped a fingernail against her molars trying to remove the pesky bits. She realized she didn't look quite normal doing that—her fingers in her mouth, seemingly clawing the inside—but since she already stood out, it didn't make much of a difference. Every so often she would pass a pedestrian wearing a tight fitting suit or one of those ridiculously huge dress skirts and they would regard her with a curious or, at times, a hateful glance. Why? She didn't know, but it could have been due to her being Ultharian. Never being outside the domain of Ulthar herself, she never experienced any anti-Ulthar (or anti-cat, anti-Bast, anti-Nodens, ect.) bigotry, but she's always heard from the most bitter of her village that most people in Kled despised Ultharians. They considered her people "filthy" or "zealous". Looking down at her dirt stained scarf and the gaping holes in her trouser knees, she could maybe understand being filthy, but Ultharians never seemed very zealous to her. Every province has its gods and Ulthar it was Bast and, to a lesser degree, Nodens. She spent her childhood praying to Bast, so these gods were a factual part of life to her, just as much as the four elements themselves. It was impossible to regard a normal part of her life as a symptom of religious fanaticism.

She knew it would be another day before she reached Thran, maybe less if she travelled directly to without rest, but seeing no need for rush she took her time skimming the small shops lining the streets. She had no intention of buying anything aside from the necessities, but it was still fascinating seeing the assortment of merchandise that seemed (superficially) to be of higher quality than anything in Ulthar. She browsed in a women's boutique that displayed a rather fabulous variety of silk dresses and blouses. It was disheartening to see the tags demanding prices well over five-hundred dollars, but it wasn't anything to worry over. Trekking across the regions would surely ruin the beautiful dresses anyway.

In contrast with the articles of fashion, she eagerly skimmed the articles of violence in a nearby blacksmiths shop. She beheld the displayed assortment of keen and viscous knives, Mnarian swords, feathered lances from Sona-Nyl, and other such things, silently imagining herself using one of those weapons against whatever hostile entity may cross her path, whether it be a man or another crazy Zoog. Being somewhat skilled in melee fighting, she found fatal violence only mildly disturbing, but that didn't mean she would enjoy it. Thanks to the Zoogs, she was introduced to the more aggressive edge of the world and it made her realize she was scared for herself and Willow, in which case an effective weapon would be an ideal thing to have. She would have purchased one of the 'smith's weapons had they not been as expensive as the silk dresses.

Her father's hunting knife served her well enough, though.

What money she did spend was at a small general store in a corner between the main avenue and an ill-kept road leading to the wheat fields. She opened her bag to examine how much money she had. Five gold coins of varying sizes and varying value, over a dozen silvers, and a few handfuls of pennies. Not much, but she could still buy something useful.

Walking in through the oak door (she didn't know why, but she flinched when the entry bell dinged), she saw that three of the walls in the general store were packed with shelves containing numerous things of varying purposes: Clothes, paper, dining ware, toys, snacks, meds, everything. The counter, which was lined with several jars containing different things, was on the back wall. One of the containers, an oversized mason jar, held numerous strips of beef jerky. This caught her eye. She knew she would need several pounds of jerky if her journey was going to be as long as was promised. Behind the counter stood a bent old woman who welcomed her costumer with a slow and quiet voice. The way her prune-like head and draped shoulders peered over the counter it reminded Clair of an antique bust. The woman didn't move. The only thing that betrayed the fact that she was alive was the slow shifting of her jaw.

Clair barely spent thirty seconds looking before she grabbed a box of matches (at some point or another she would need to start a campfire) and four handfuls of jerky, laying it on the counter.

“Will that be all?” The old woman wheezed. The woman's voice was so quiet, Clair could barely tell she said anything at all.

“Yes.” Clair nodded.

As the old woman squinted at the price tag on the matches, taking her time trying to read it, the Ultharian couldn't help feeling a little pity for the old clerk, who was apparently half blind. Clair’s own eyes fell on a stack of wooden cups engraved with the Elder Sign, set neatly on a display table. Remembering that she'd been drinking from her palms for the last weeks, she assumed it would be worth buying a drinking vessel. The guessed the Elder Sign was a ward against tainted water, or something like that. After all, one can never have too much protection, she though, even when drinking.

“Actually, ma’am, I would also like one of these cups as well.” Clair asserted, grabbing one.

“Very well.” The woman wheezed, again to quiet to understand.

Again waiting for the woman to finish reading the tag, Clair noticed Willow pawing at a dangling cat toy on a nearby shelf. Without much though, she walked over to where Willow was sitting and grabbed the feather-lined toy. She set it on the counter between her and the old woman and said, “I would also like to buy this cat toy.”

The old woman sighed and complied.

Almost instantly, Clair noticed a wicker basket of ground up medicinal herb, nestled on a rack below the counter. Looking at it, an imaginary pain sprang to life in her back where the Zoog arrows pierced her. More to dissipate the feeling than to express indifference to it, she shrugged, thinking it would be a wise idea to have some pain relieving meds around in case the soreness of her injuries ever spiked again. She grabbed a handful, put it in a complimentary paper bag, and set it on the counter. “May I also…” she began before the woman interrupted.

“Yes dear, I know.” She passive-aggressively griped, this time making sure her soft voice was loud enough to hear. After another prolonged examination of the merchandise, she turned to Clair and asked, “Will that be all?” secretly hoping to the gods that it will be.

Clair remained silent for a few seconds, gazing at the old woman and scoping for more of her subtle but bitchy attitude, being somewhat amused. After becoming bored of the tension, she looked around the store, then back at the woman, and shrugged. For a half second, that imaginary pain surfaced. She wondered if the pain was actually imaginary.

The old woman nodded. “That will be two silvers, dear. Would you like to open a tab?”

Clair shook her head, not caring to elaborate. She laid the coins and carelessly crammed her loot in her bag.

A moment later she was walking the streets leading to the gates of Thran again, her bag and stomach slightly heavier than when she entered the village. The sun began slowly descending to the horizon, casting its red glow on the glistening towers ahead, creating that magnificent "flaming" look that she read so fondly of in Carter's stories. In the red light, she could see the Oukranos flowing past the outer wall of Thran, some great distance away. A port, consisting of a few small buildings and a score of masted ships, filled the space between the river and the walls.

The white face of the moon becoming more profound in the skies zenith reminded her she would need to rest soon, but there wasn’t an inn within sight, or at least not on any street she cared to examine. It was sad, really. This place had already spoiled her with high-grade food, convenience, medicine, scenery, yet couldn’t seem to provide a bed, which was the one thing Clair had missed the most. Though far past accustomed to it now, Clair somewhat resented the thought of sleeping outside on the ground again.

“Well I suppose you can’t ask for everything.” She sighed. She gave Willow—who effortlessly kept pace with his human friend in a graceful strut—a passing glance. Willow curiously regarded her some time after Clair looked away and opened his jaws as if to make a noise, but instead licked his snout and began to skim his surroundings with indifference.

After passing a dozen blocks, she came across a luxurious looking coach parked at the curb in front of a columned building she took to be a bank. Hitched to the front were a pair polished looking black stallions that acknowledged her approach with a curt snort. It was obviously not a cheap wood-and-paint cab drawn by half-starved horses. It was a premium cab adorned with silver statuettes, intricate and beautiful engravings, and real gold. The wheels were made of rust-free metal and supported with a web of crisscrossing spokes. The twin headlights bolted to the front corners still blazed, indicating that the cab was not long abandoned.

To her surprise, a slim, lanky man—suavely dressed and donning a rather bitter look on his brow—rounded the rear of the cab, casually pacing to the driver's seat with his hands buried in his pockets. The moment he noticed Clair standing there, he started as if spooked then gave her a silent, condescending glare.

“Is this a public cab?” Clair asked. She could feel Willow sitting against the back of her legs.

“It is,” the driver said. “but it’s damn expensive. I’m not sure your parents would be okay spending what little they have on this ride of the kings.” He scowled and gestured for her to leave. "Beat it kid."

Irritated, she scowled and asserted "I'm not poor."

The man looked amused. "An Ultharian? Not poor?

"No." Clair almost asked how he knew she was an Ultharian, but then remembered the butcher's observation. "I'm not poor. I need a ride and I intend on paying in full."

"Don't jest me, brat…"

"Who in the nine hells are you to talk to me like that?!"

"An adult." He said in a venomous matter-of-fact tone. "I'm not gonna take any bullshit from a thirteen-year-old, okay? Now I'll give you a ride if you can pay. If not—which you won't—then you're hoofing it."

"I already told you, I can pay."

"How much you got?"

"How much is a ride from here to the nearest gate of Thran?"

"How much you got?" The driver sternly repeated.

Clair hesitated to respond for a moment, instead giving the driver a hateful glance. Then she said "I'm not dim. I'm on to your game, sir." she added as much sarcasm into "sir" as she could. "I say how much I have and you make up a price way beyond what I can afford. Just to prove your point. Or you're gonna make it barely affordable so you can get as much out of me as possible. Right?"

"You calling me a thief, girl?"

Clair didn't answer that with words, but with smug silence, hoping she would make her point clear. "How much is the ride?" She inquired again.

The driver scowled, then immediately afterward gave her a shark-like grin, revealing his yellowed teeth that greatly contrasted with his clean look. "Ten golds."

Clair gave the man an open mouthed frown, beaming contempt. She rolled her emerald eyes and started off.

"Ha!" The driver exclaimed. "I knew you were poor. Damn Utharian, thinkin' you can waltz into Thran like a noble." Still laughing to himself, he hopped into his cab, snapped the reins, and forced his horses forward. With the clattering of iron wheels and tapping of hooves, the cab passed Clair and rounded a corner a few hundred paces ahead. Knowing it was too late for it, she stuck a signal finger into the air, aimed at the vanished coach, in the crude Ultharian "fuck you" gesture.

Dusk was setting in. The flaming glare of sunlight on the gold surface of Thran was replaced by the spectral colors of candlelit windows and the rays of unseen street lamps. The last traces of the sun was beginning to vanish over the West and the moon shone bright in its gibbous phase, it's white glow mingled with the constellations and the iridescent disks of the planets.

Her feet started cramping and she could feel the soreness of blisters on her heels as the leather of her boots unceasingly rubbed against them with every step. Now, she thought, would be a good time to put the the medical herbs to use. She rolled the greenish flakes into a strip of paper, stuck the product between her lips, lit a match—savoring the soft heat the orange glow cast over her cheeks—and set one end ablaze. She inhaled the herb's flavor the fist chance she had, holding it in her lungs until she felt like letting it out in a plume of white smoke which tickled her nose as it struck and faded.

Already, the pain in her feet was beginning to ease.

 


	5. Thran

_This is a land where Dreamers walk,_  
Away from where tribulations stalk...  
—Unkown

 

 

 

 

It had to have been almost midnight before she finally approached the final mile leading to Thran. The flaming towers seemed a much more distant memory at this point and the moon hung white and clear over the South. Looking up at it, she could see the faint reddish marks that indicated the presence of Moon-Beast citadels mixed with the grey surface stains. Her mother always told her this was moon at its most obscene, when the city's of the Moon-Beast were visible, but Clair saw no reason to be repulsed. In fact, the traces of red actually made the white disk more alluring. The Beast were all the way up there and was down here, so what exactly was the problem?

She remembered her thoughts on Ultharian zealotry from earlier.

The hospitable villas were now long left behind the series of rising and declining hills. Their distant houses and chimney smoke eerily reminded her of Ulthar when she left that behind. Before her, no more than a couple hundred meters, stood the frayed edges of a garden forest. She saw a well-kept cobblestone road—illuminated in the dark by a series of flickering orange lanterns suspended atop iron columns—winding into the dense forest of blooming shrubs and a variety of exotic trees, many of which Clair could not identify. Just over the top of the mass of leaves, rustling in the wind, she could see the glittering lights of her destination, once again rendered as an iridescent mass of sparks in the dark canvas of night. When Clair came to the edge, she stopped and sat down on the grass to give her feet a rest while Willow sprinted down the path without his human. Clair thought he was going to completely abandon her, but to her relief, Willow stopped just a few meters ahead, turning to give her an expecting glance. Her second hand-rolled cigar still hung in her mouth, reduced to nothing be a charred butt. She spat it out, then spat a few globs of smokey saliva, trying to purge her mouth of the taste. Her heels still hurt, but only a little. She wondered if enduring blistered feet was preferable to filling her lungs with bitter tasting smoke.

She stretched her legs, then rose to follow Willow down the stone path, delving into a chamber of flora, hued in colors she didn't think was normal for plants. As she walked, Clair examined her map once more by the passing glow of the lamps. She could find nothing new. The path she had chosen—from Thran to Celephaïs. From Celephaïs to Inquanok. From Inquanok to Leng. From Leng to the unspoken fate atop Kadath—seemed reasonable enough. Naively, she tried to ignore all the "what if" questions that arose in her mind. She knew she needed a few alternate plans in case Thran didn't work out as expected but, for one thing, there were too many "what if's" to consider and creating a plan to accommodate all of them seemed to daunting, especially given how tired she was. Another thing, she was in no rush. She was going to Kadath. If she were to be stonewalled, then it would be a perfectly good excuse to delay her arrival at Kadath.

Near the end of the trail, they came across an arched, stone bridge above a pond surrounded by ghostly clusters of luminous blue roses and giant dragonflies coated in polished-green chitin and making intimidating droning noises with their meter long wings. She and Willow walked across the massive bridge, taking care to avoid the dragonflies that aimlessly swooped and dived like glossy birds-of-prey, and stopped when they reached the apex. Ahead of her was an opening in the trees, from which she could see a huge field, cut in two by a narrow road (the one she now trod) lined on either side by a series of ivory statues. On the far side was the massive outer wall of Thran, covered in intricate carvings depicting gods and other creatures. The carvings, primarily the eyes of which, glowed with red torches, making the wall stand out in the surrounding darkness. The spires behind the wall were clearer now than ever as Clair beheld the metallic titans. The thousands of lighted windows illuminated the shining surfaces of the towers with colors from all over the spectrum. Unseen lights from the streets below gave the wall a thin halo that silhouetted the numerous flags and sentinels on top.

Clair slowly crept out of the dark garden forest, stunned with the unimaginable beauty of Thran, and continued down the path towards the wall. Now out from under the trees, she could clearly see the sky above the towers. The clouds reflected the city's glow like lumpy mirrors, dying the night with the same color palette as Thran.

Where the path finally met the wall, there was a large gate. Its frame was decorated to resemble a large, lion-like dragon with glowing glass eyes. Guarding the gate were a pair of soldiers draped in red cloth carrying spears and new weapon-devises that the sages of Ulthar called “guns.”

The excitement building up inside her was unbearable. At the wonders that awaited behind the glowing wall Clair could only guess. She hated the journey she was forced to go on, but she could at least enjoy herself while she was out. Whatever it was that the Crawling Chaos wanted out of her, it could wait.

“Halt!” One of the soldiers commanded as Clair and Willow approached. They were frightening, so Clair thought, much more imposing than the humble troops that Ulthar rarely called upon. Yet despite the blood colored uniforms, their bulky upper bodies, and rifles they wore a friendly and gentle expression on their squared faces. “To enter this city, traveler" the troop continued "you must regale us with three dreams beyond human imagining.”

Clair looked at the hooded soldiers in surprise, shifting her eyes back and forth between the two. She simply shrugged and said, “I would rather not.” As if it were an option.

“You must,” the soldier continued, “Or else you must turn away now and leave.”

“Look, I just want to board the ship bound for Inquanok.” She said as she raised her palms. “That is all.”

“Three dreams, traveler.”

Clair sighed. Aside from her the nightmare that provoked her journey, she never experienced any dreams worth mentioning, and she really didn’t want to recount that nightmare, but it seemed as if she had no choice. She rubbed her chin, thinking of a good way to start. “Okay.” She began. “In one dream, I was in…uh…space, I guess, and I saw the destruction of a planet, as I think it was." She almost cringed hearing herself. The soldiers didn't express any emotion concerning Clair's poor presentation. Maybe that was a good thing. "Everybody and everything died; the sun turned red; nearby planets were ruined…uh…an ocean evaporated.” she paused.

"Seems devastating." One troop said, no emotion lacing his voice. The other one seemed mildly interested yet still unsure. He looked at his partner as if expecting him to say something, then back to Clair. "What happens next, traveller?" Said the other.

“There was singing a-and chanting or something of the sort. Space became a v-vortex," She paused again. Vortex seemed to generic of a word for some reason. "Or a spiral. A cyclone?" She hardly realized she said that aloud. "A vortex, much like water in a drain, but with…uh…colors and lights.” Clair began stuttering more and more, knowing her unorganized description didn’t even come close to carrying the same horror she felt during that dream. As she reached the climax, she paused again. She was dreadfully nervous to say the name “Azathoth” aloud. As sophisticated as the people of Thran seemed to be, even they would cower at the Sultan’s mention, but in the end, she had something she needed to do. Undoubtedly, a visitation from Azathoth and Nyarlathotep would count as a “dream beyond human imagining”, so she finally resolved to tell the final part and proceed. “A-and then I met…”

Before she could finish, the indifferent soldier, obviously fed up with Clair’s poor dream-telling skills, said “Hold your words traveler. Are you not a Dreamer?”

Clair had no idea how to respond to such a question. If a person could dream, would that not make him or her a dreamer? It passed Clair’s mind that the guards were making fun of her, but they sounded far too serious in their questioning. “I…guess.” Clair shrugged. “I dream at night like most people, don’t I?”

The other soldier chuckled a little as the other shook his head in disappointment before asking “Do you wish for me to explain what a Dreamer is, traveler?”

The soldier voiced his question in a condescending manner, wounding Clair's pride only the slightest, but still enough to make her angry. She was completely lost and, to make it worse, the guards seemed to talk to her like she was a halfwit. She pinched the space between her eyes and sighed. “Explain.” She groaned as she gestured for the guard to continue.

“A Dreamer is an entity that hails from one of the outer spheres, or 'dimensions', as the philosophers like to call them. They are said to be beings whose minds are free and completely without limit. This would allow them to access our realm during their sleeping hours, but only their mind could pass for it is the mind that truly matters in terms of the vast universe and the sphere in which it swims. If a mortal Dreamer where to die, then his mind and soul would forever live in the Dream Realm relative to their own. The great King Kuranes in Celephais and Randolph Carter the hero are two examples you have surely heard of. This city, the towers and temples of Thran, are reserved for Dreamers, dead and living. You, child, are obviously not a Dreamer, so you are not allowed within Thran’s walls.” The soldier then pointed his spear in the direction Clair came from, eyeing her in annoyance, and barked “I believe you know where your place is.”

"What?!" Clair yelped. "But I've traveled…"

The guard interrupted with a sharp tap of his spear against the road. "Leave. Now."

Clair could hardly believe what she had just heard. So much anticipation and so much joy in the thought of walking Thran’s streets just to have it shattered in an instance, it was degrading. Where she was to go now, she had no idea, but Nyarlathotep would not let her quit her journey. She had to find another way to Inquanok, but for now, the stars overhead beckoned her to her meaningless dream-world. With low and almost watery eyes she turned from the red-draped soldiers and walked away with Willow at her heels.

Later that night, she found herself camping at the edge of a nearby forest—one some distance away from Thran's walls, but still close enough to clearly see it's light—still dismayed and disheartened by her rejection. A fire burned before her, turning the pile of mossy wood she gathered into glowing embers. Slowly entering it's death throes, but brightly aglow, the fire emitted gray plumes of heated smoke, who's scent reminded Clair of the fireplace in her old house that remained perpetually lit throughout autumn and winter. She looked around her, regretting that she was condemned outside again rather than in a cozy inn. She wished she was sleeping in a bed, but the lack of such was just another reminder of the bigger and much more unfortunate situation she was caught in. Night had drowned out everything except the firmament above and the taunting lights of Thran. She stared at the glowing towers for some time, sadly thinking about what could have been. Crickets and cicadas sang their song as the wind gently rustled the branches of the forest, the leaves scrapping against one another creating gentle music. The fire cast its eerie orange glow around her as it flickered. Heat radiated and covered her, making her outer cloths feel more like the furnace-heated quilts she used to bury herself in when the temperature outside dropped below zero. The familiarity brought a thin smile to her lips, yet did nothing for how she felt. The smell of roasting wood filled the air and she was brought back to the moment she discovered the butchers grill. Still tasting pepper and char on her teeth, she took a sip from the Elder Sign vessel, generously filled with pond water. She mused over the inscription, considering that it might have diminished the already slim chance of being attacked by a djinn. Even so, the little leaf-shaped symbol didn't come close to making her feel safe. She glanced at Willow who peacefully slept at her side with the frequent expanding and contacting of his breathing body indicating that he was well. The sight of him eased her depression. She looked around once more at the star littered sky, the vibrant campfire and the distant lights of Thran. Now that she had a chance to see it up close, she realized that Thran was far more beautiful from a distance. The trees sang, the stars shone, and the wind was fair. It was tranquil and, despite the biome change, reminder her of Ulthar's own serenity. Nights were always so silent back home. Not even the cats ever dared make a sound.

Experiencing these things made her realize she was glad she missed out on Thran. In walking the artificial world, she would have missed this quaint and lovely experience aside a healthy fire and a friendly forest before setting off to the dusty, barren North devoid of sane life and filled with the threatening counterpart of hospitable silence. Soon, she will be deprived of the privilege of living in a vibrant, floral land. It would have been a wise idea to enjoy it now why she can.

That night, the dreams recurred, as expected, but this time she came face to face with the shadow of Nyarlathotep himself: a humanoid mass of living darkness whose edges merged almost perfectly with the surrounding night. In fear, she spoke with the darkness and he promised her “The fun will soon end.”

 


	6. Heaven...

 

Days passed after leaving Thran. Clair found herself walking through another forest, though this one was not nearly as dense (or as dangerous) as the Enchanted Wood. It was more of a relatively scant expanse of pine trees, separated from one another by at least ten meters. From the wide open forest roof flooded sunlight which illuminated the ground, laden with a thick carpet of fallen pine needles and pinecones. Surprisingly, very little else grew there; only random tufts of grass and a lone but exceptionally large mushroom she accidentally stepped on. There were a number of squirrels though. They would skitter between the trunks, showing occasional interest in the bountiful pinecones. They didn't seem to be disturbed by Willow's presence, nor vice versa. She had very little idea as to where she was relatively speaking. However, she did know she was somewhere in the thousand-acre “Tlo-Klo” forest region between Thran and the Eastern coast of the Cerenarian Sea, but as far as specifics went she was lost. She looked upward at the sun and read that she was still travelling Northeast, which was where she thought she needed to be going.

She eventually decided to take advantage of the still air and warming sunlight and take a short break. She sat underneath a towering pine tree that was, amazingly, one of the shortest in the forest. Willow lay sprawled on her lap, chewing on bits of jerky while Clair skimmed her map, looking for an alternate route to take since the Thran seaport was no longer an option. She took note of the various images and symbols around the area marked “Tlo-Klo”, eventually leading her eye to the Eastern shores along the Cerenarian Sea. She noticed several colonies and towns, but none seemed to house any sort of harbor. She then noticed a small and seemingly insignificant image of a galley just off the coast facing towards the region of Ooth-Nargai on the opposite side of the Cerenarian. From what she could tell, the galley, which was marked simply as “the White Ship”, was about thirty or so kilometers from the nearest edge of the Tlo-Klo forest. Unless she wasn’t mistaking the “White Ship” for a useless doodle, it seemed as if it could take her straight to Celephaïs, the grand capitol of Ooth-Nargai and the hub for all trade and interregional travel. If she could reach Celephais, she would without a doubt find a way to Inquanok. Or, with any luck, the White Ship could take her straight to Inquanok instead. She folded the map, put it away and rudely awoke Willow from his relentless snacking. They continued Northeast towards the docks of the supposed “White Ship”.

More days passed and Clair soon caught the scent of salt water beneath the ever present smell of pine sap. Taking a quick skim of her surroundings, she fond it impossible to see the ocean over the hills. She inquisitively followed the scent, hoping to the gods her senses weren’t being deceived. Her fears were soon alleviated when she heard the hum of crashing waves in the distance, much like the sound of water being poured out of a large basin, but multiplied a hundred fold. Out of overpowering curiosity, she made one last sprint out of the forest and beheld the sparkling horizon of the Cerenarian past a series of mild hills. She ran towards the roaring coast, laughing like a young child, feet flying over dense dunes of sand. She stopped at the water’s edge and took in the endless expanse of ocean before her. Never before has she seen anything so vast. Not even the grandeur of the Skai plain—which stretched to all four horizons—could compare to the hypnotic fields of rippled waves before her. It was her first time ever seeing the ocean. Although she had drifted in the unimaginable void outside of her home sphere and looked Azathoth in the eye, the vastness of a simple body of water was enough to completely captivate the girl. The crude drawings and stories of such a sight could never come close to depicting the beauty of the real thing.

Despite the need to move forward, she had no want to leave that spot at the waters' edge. Willow stayed back several paces, crouched in the sand and eyeing the encroaching and receding waves with fear mixed with amazement. Only the Skai—a mere drop in a pond compared to the sea—could have prepared either of them for the Cerenarian. She removed her boots and socks and placed them at a safe distance from the shore where the sand was dry and hot. The shifting of a million grains beneath her unsteady heels was not unfamiliar but the very uneven surface was surprising. She found it difficult to walk over the multitude of small piles of sand that composed the beach. Tiny pieces of jagged stones in plate-like shapes (Shells. She knew that much, they were shells.) scrapped the callused skin beneath her feet. The damp coolness of the soaked sand closer to water was relieving, but her heels sank into the surface in away that was somewhat more unpleasant than when she trod the dry sand. Timidly she stepped into the water, letting it rise to her ankles. It was cold at first, but she quickly adjusted to it to the point where it seemed lukewarm.

While she stood there, she had a somewhat clear view into the shallower depths of the water. While most of the seafloor seemed to be a beige slate that mirrored the rippled patterns of the waves, there were occasional clumps of swaying plants that seemed almost black beneath the water and a few ugly stones scattered here and there. She considered venturing further into the water just to prod at some of those rocks for the fun of it, but she didn't want to wet her clothes (not after experiencing the inconvenience of falling into the Oukranos) and she didn't think to pack a bathing suit, among other things. Skinny dipping was an option she supposed but exposing oneself outside of ones home was a very obscene and unladylike thing to do. She considered at length and decided the factor inconsequential considering she was hundreds of miles away from home and dozens away from any human habitation that she knew of. Blushing, she resolved to swim after all. Besides, it was highly unlikely that she would ever find herself on another beach. Might as well make the best of the opportunity.

She stayed in the water for almost three hours, clothing discarded on the beach and Willow left alone and probably bored, both sand and water being of no interest to the cat. For a while she browsed the odd, corkscrew shells and slimy boulders but didn't find anything overly fascinating save for a flat, bleach-white stone with a curious star shaped design of it's upper face, that she tossed to the beach next to her belongings to examine later. After exploring, she let the waves carry her farther out where the water was so deep her pruned feet couldn't graze the bottom. For a while, she blankly day dreamed while on the brink of sleep. The refreshing coolness of the water on her aching muscles and the sounds of crashing waves working in unison was relaxing. No other sound or feeling disturbed her, so she was left to silently bob in the water like a driftwood. Occasionally a strand of dark green vegetation would float along and end up sticking to her uncomfortably, but this was the most severe of her worries at the moment. She knew this would later be considered one of the more pleasant chapters in her journey. The thought of Nyarlathotep and the strings he had attached to her was distant and she found it easy rest while drifting in the ocean.

For a time she meditated, involuntarily slipping into a state almost akin to sleep. When she awoke, the gap in time seemed so large it felt like she had lost consciousness for days, but in truth she had only been out for a couple of hours. This she could tell by the sun's position. The pruning in her fingers and the sticky, salty feeling on her skin motivated her to go ashore again. She let herself drip dry over the sand before dressing, after which she turned her attention to Willow. She had failed to notice him after waking up, much less pay any attention to whether or not he was there, and it sent her into a brief panic upon seeing that the cat wasn't within immediate sight. However, her fears were put to rest when she noticed Willow sprawled across a nearby rock, tail swaying and eyes frequently shifting from one thing to another.

As the clouds eclipsed the sun, casting a cooling shadow, Clair noticed how humid the air had become. The light breeze whipped up and rustled the pines in the nearby edge of the Tlo-klo. It was the forewarning of a storm or at the very least rain. It was disheartening knowing that she might not have shelter when it came, but she thought she would survive it. So long as she made finding shelter a priority, she would eventually find a good place to wait out the storm. Of coarse, Spring rain was frequent, but it wouldn't freeze her to death.

Willow mewed aloud, and stood on his haunches, back almost perfectly straight. His gaze froze towards the coast, eyeing some unseen thing as if he were eyeing prey. He remained still. Even his breath was abated. His behavior startled Clair. He acted this way only a few times in the past years, and each time Clair could never determine what had spooked him. Her mother always told her cats could see spirits and would often remain alert, or at times go into a frenzy, if one was nearby. Fearing the worst, she followed the cat's stern gaze. She eased yet remained just as confused when she saw the item of Willow's interest.

What it was she couldn't immediately tell, for it was a vast distance away hanging over some far away region of the Cerenarian, but nonetheless clear in the evening sky. It was a large object hovering above the clouds, half concealed in their white haze. It was dark red against the rising sun behind it and the edges were obscured by the mix of light and atmosphere, giving it a ghostly look. She could faintly see spike or spire like protrusions on the top and bottom of it. Streaming from the underside were faint trails that fell and dissipated between the mass and the horizon, becoming something like a vague mist. As Clair strained her eyes, she could see that the streams were actually waterfalls coming from the floating thing. A revelation came to her as she decided to consult the map. She searched the mostly bank area that represented the Cerenarian and noticed a small but intricate drawing of a city that apparently floated over the sea. She denied it at first, but after taking carful glances between the map and the airborne mass, she fully understood what it was she was looking at. She heard the tales during her childhood, but hardly ever gave any credence to it, yet here it was, right in front of her. To her amazement, she was seeing Serannian, the pink marble city of the clouds!

In childish excitement, she strode forth to get a better view, stopping at the water's edge. Logically, it didn't help in making the sight clearer, but that did nothing to quell her urge to get closer to a place that, only minutes ago, was thought to have existed solely in legend.

There was no telling how far away Serannian was; from Clair’s perspective it looked like a tiny dark-red smudge in the sky, but it was undoubtedly as large as Thran, maybe even bigger. Her wonder spiked, thinking on the impossibility of suspending a city-sized vessel into the sky. In futility, she strained her meek Ultharian knowledge of science and magic in attempt to comprehend the marble city's grandeur.

“One day,” Clair said wistfully “We’ll go there. Perhaps we’ll see it up close during our voyage. Who knows?" She lowered herself into a sitting position, and Willow immediately thereafter leaped into Clair’s lap. His weight on her legs made it possible for her to notice him purring and rubbing against her arm. She quickly got the point and began running her fingers through the gray fur along the cat's back. Willows tail rhythmically swayed, the rest of him falling into a sleep-like stillness. She regarded her friend with a slight smile, enjoying his presence more than she enjoyed watching Serannian. “We’ll go there together.” She said. "Before the gods have us."

Clair wasn’t exactly sure how long she sat and watched Serannian slowly drift across the sky—it could have been hours or minutes—but at some point, she felt some inexplicable tugging in her head, not unlike a headache but, oddly, less physical. It was more like an involuntary thought. Somehow, without contemplation or any real proof, she knew what was lurking in her mind.

 _Now, Clair,_ Nyarlethotep hissed inside her head, carrying the tone of a vexed parent. _You must not get distracted._ You _have somewhere you need to be, remember? I believe it would be wise to keep moving_.

Rationality would have dictated that she should have obeyed the command of the deity. Receiving a visitation from the Crawling Chaos was a terrifying thing to say the least. The very thought of a sadistic, omnipotent elder entity achieving unity with her being was so unsettling—it felt like the ultimate and most hostile of intrusions—but whether by foolishness or arrogance, she simply scowled and considered ignoring him. Instead, she summoned the mettle to yell “I believe I deserve a little rest! Don’t pester me!” She realized too late the mistake she made in talking back to a god. Suddenly, a violent pain exploded through her head, as if every nerve in her skull was being pulled and jerked about; a feeling akin to having her skull cleft and slowly pried apart. She grabbed her temples and screamed in agony as the unseen hand of the Crawling Chaos crushed her. She fell to the sand and tightly curled in on herself, the god's mad laughter echoing in her thoughts. Willow laid a concerned paw on Clair’s trembling back as he began feeling Nyarlathotep’s otherworldly presence. He arched his back and hissed, frantically looking for the invisible assailant to no avail.

 _DO NOT DEFY ME, YOU FUCKING BRAT_! The dark god roared, his words mixed with his cackling. _YOUR WORTHLESS EXISTENCE IS DEDICATED TO SERVING ME! FORGET THAT AND YOU WILL SPEND ETERNITY IN THE MOST AGONISING PITS OF CHAOS AND MISERY! DO YOU UNDERSTAND?_

“Yes” Clair screamed as tears gushed from her eyes, her fingernails clawing at her scalp in desperation.

"Good." Nyarlathotep purred, releasing his grip on Clair.

She took a few deep breaths, savoring the the lack of feeling in her skull and waiting for Nyarlathotep’s next move. Thankfully he had left. She sat up and wiped away whatever tears were still clinging to her cheeks. Willow sat against her arm, comforting her and trying to bring her out of her traumatic state. Without hesitation, Clair stood, prompting Willow to do the same.

“Come on. We have to go.” Clair said through a choked sob before continuing down the beach with Willow following. Through the trees, she could see the sky in the West was already beginning to darken. The wind strengthened, forcing the flora into synchronized swaying and the tides into a frenzy. Hearing the distant crackle of thunder, she dove into the forest, hoping the pines would give some degree of cover. The trees were still too far apart to create a canopy and as far as she could see there were no overhangs or caves to hide in. The forest was a monotonous consistency throughout, and provided no hint that there was any change in landscape nearby. If she hoped to find a cave or dense foliage, she would have to continue forward.

Still shaken, she could still feel the ghost of that agonizing pain Nyarlathotep gifted her and could still hear his warning. She thought about how most would scoff at her ignorance; at her inability to foresee what she was getting into. Mental and physical torture was to be expected when dealing with a god made of pure evil. If anyone else was in her situation, they would walk away laughing knowing that getting a brief, albeit agonizing, headache was a form of mercy. Clair almost felt glad that that episode was over, but still couldn't help but feel…

She had no idea how to put it. Scared? Sad? Hateful maybe? Perhaps none of those, perhaps all; all she knew was that she was not skipping in joy at the moment. She understood her quest more than ever now. To say that her journey was “dangerous” or a guaranteed “deathtrap” was a strong understatement. She was being beckoned forward by the Crawling Chaos, the very offspring of the chaotic and unfathomable universe itself. Only the gods know what she will soon face atop Kadath. She knew that death wasn’t an option. Nyarlathotep wanted her alive and he was going to have her alive, and Clair could do nothing more than obediently follow.

Her pondering set off a twinge in the back of her mind. She wondered if this is how madness starts. Elder priest have stared the gods in the eyes before and their minds shattered, so what would happen when Clair finally sees Nyarlathotep? Ulthar was not free of lunatics or idiots, so she would on rare occasions see one walking the streets—a decrepit man almost incapable of speech or speaking random, incoherent worlds, or a woman with a dead, confused look in her eyes—and feel something akin to pity for them. But above all else she would feel scared, not only of them but of the possibility of becoming them.

“I want to go home.” She groaned, finally understanding what it feels like to be a clueless ant left in the dark. She didn't know if she would ever return home one day, sane or otherwise, and that alone was enough to send her into a panic attack. If going home alive nor sane wasn't an option, she'd rather go home a corpse in a wooden casket rather than a mind-blasted simpleton, scarred from the mere visage of an Other God.

Without warning, a torrential rain came down on the forest, beating on the branches and impacting the needle covered ground in a rapid sequence of loud smacks. The downpour created a thick haze that pervaded the spaces between the trees, making it almost impossible to navigate. Within seconds, she was soaked to the skin, the biting chill of water creating a fear of hyperthermia or pneumonia. She quickly removed her coat and draped it over her head and shoulders in a makeshift hood, positioning herself so that it would cover as much as her body as it could. She held Willow tightly in her arms, shielding him with her hanging head. He made no objection. He just quietly curled against her belly, shifting eyes showing fear.

Hours went by without event save for the unending assault of droplets borne from the shadowed sky. As predicted, there was no feasible shelter to be found. Only uniformed trees and the furious sound of the windswept ocean. Listening to the brutal crashing of the nearby waves, she considered the possibility she was trapped in the midst of a severe storm. Thunder echoed frequently, accompanied by the bluish flashed of lighting. Gale force winds bent the thick pines ever so slightly, but their movements were enough to confirm Clair's hunch. With each passing second, the winds grew more and more violent. She clamped one tight fist on her coat as it fluttered in the gale and kept the other secured around Willow, who remained silent but alive.

With a sharp heightening of the wind, her coat flew free from her grasp and was blown across the forest floor, leaving her shoulders and hair to be mercilessly pelted. She ran after it, allowing Willow to leap from her arms and skitter across the ground after her. The coat landed on a leafless shrub, it's sleeves locking with the naked claw-like branches, keeping it from flying any further. She caught it, glad that it wasn't lost. As she slipped it over her arms, she heard Willow mewing from somewhere behind her, but upon turning she found she could not see him. Not through the opaque sheet of heavy rain.

"Willow?" She called, trying to keep concern out of her voice.

Willow's mewing sounded again, this time accompanied by the sloshing of paws on mud. Clair started, but stopped when her boot sunk uncomfortably deep into the heavily saturated ground. She pulled it free to venture another step, but it sunk again, this time going much deeper, well above the neck of her boot.

To her comfort, Willow's shadow manifested out of the haze, but the cat stopped when his own feet where swallowed by the Earth. He quickly freed himself and continued towards Clair, who also stepped forward to meet her friend, but when the ground beneath them heaved with a thick sound of crushing mud they both froze, skimming the ground with concern.

For a fleeting moment, Clair could see the the ground had caved in just the slightest, signifying it's immanent collapse, but before Clair could think of what to do, the surface fell free from beneath her, falling to the darkened depths of a cavern below. She would have fallen with the mangled chunks of earth had she not caught the ragged edge of the resulting pit, tightly weaving her trembling fingers around tangled roots made slick with wet soil. The rain continued, naturally indifferent to her peril. Her wet locks fell across her eyes, halfway blinding her. Water streamed down her temples and brow. She tried to haul herself up, bending her arms with all her strength and planting her feet against the wayward sloping walls of the hole, but everything was too was slippery to make escape possible. She could feel her hands skidding away from the soaked roots. From above, she heard Willow's distressed howl. He stood safely at the edge of the hole, watching her and fidgeting in panic, helpless to do anything else.

He only had one option. "You have to go, Willow!" Clair yelled over the roaring of the rain. The cat ignored her. He lowered his dripping head to lock his jaws around her sleeves, futilely trying his hardest to pull her up. "No! Run, Willow! You can't…"

Her grip failed and she plummeted to the darkness below, screaming, taking the cat with her. The last waking action she remembered was grabbing Willow in midair and holding him to her chest.

 


	7. ...Hell

Darkness was everywhere. Pain was all Clair could feel. That and the distant sensation of damp fabric clinging to her skin, but mostly pain. She could barely move, but with every heave of breath or slightest twitch, a torturous shock permeated her entire body. Her thoughts were slow and drowsy as consciousness returned. She couldn’t hear anything and she didn’t have the strength to open her eyes.

One hand loosened as she slowly clenched it, fighting through the pain it sent. She patted the ground around her and struggled to make sense of what she felt. She was apparently lying on some sort of soft, fleshy material covered in a thick, warm fluid. With her thoughts still clouded over, she came to the worst conclusion.

“Oh gods…I’m bleeding…” She whimpered, still unwilling to see for herself. Her undulating tongue and throat sent fresh burst of pain through her head. She lifted the hand she was using (grateful that it wasn’t broken) and rolled the fluid over her finger tips. She was wrong. It had the viscosity of syrup and smelled indescribably worse than anything she's smelled before. It wasn’t blood, or at least, not hers. She found the strength to move her arm some more, and managed to lay a goo-covered hand on the furry ball that sat on her chest.

Please, please let Willow be alive. She prayed. Her fears were put to rest when she felt the slightest movement of Willow’s breathing. She sighed. “Thank the gods.” Willow, only half awake at this point, mewed softly as if in the throes of a dream.

Clair finally opened her eyes, nearly terrified of what could be within sight, however all she saw was more darkness, split only by the hole she had fallen through, visible as a small, blue-gray ellipsoid far above. It was at this time she noticed the scarce droplets that fell and nipped her nose and cheeks. She remembered the rain and how it had apparently saturated the ground to the point of total instability. The downpour had dwindled to a drizzle, prompting the question of how long she had been cataleptic. Her eyes shifted to the sleeping cat on top of her and was relieved to see that he was unharmed; only wet with water and half dried mud, much like herself.

She took a deep breath, held it, and hauled her pain stricken mass upward, catching Willow as he tumbled. With every audible pop of her bones, a violent shock shot through her, forcing several groans. After setting the still sleeping Willow on the muck covered ground, she moved and flexed her stiff limbs about and knew that they were not broken, despite being in a near agonizing pain. She looked around. In almost every direction absolutely nothing was visible save for the hole above and the small area around her that was illuminated by the light the hole provided. She looked down at the ground she had woken up on and was horrified to see that she was lying on some sort of dead and mangled creature with a vague humanoid indentation in its slushy, bleach-white flesh. All over its worm-like mass were tears and fractures that oozed dark green blood. She quickly examined her coat and trousers and noticed that much of the blood and bits of flesh had stuck to her.

Poor brute must have broken my fall. She thought almost apologetically.

She looked around the dead creature (which might have been a d’hole, but no one has ever seen one in daylight, so it was impossible to tell) and noticed that the cavern floor was littered with crumbling bones and skulls (some human, but most not) that leered at her with empty eye sockets, half shrouded in shadow. She knelt before a curious looking cranium and moved it, heedless of the shockingly dry and rugged texture. She removed more bones from the ground and proceeded to dig, but discovered that the “bone layer” was far deeper than she thought. A half meter deep hole dug into the layer, and she could see no sign of the earth.

“By Nodens,” she gasped, casually casting aside a few twig-like specimens. “This whole cavern must be full of bones.” She moved her feet, hearing the ghoulish relics crack beneath her weight. Under normal circumstances, she would be quite disturbed walking through a sea of bones, but waking up in the Underworld on top of a dead d’hole after falling gods know how many hundreds of feet must have done in her fear. However, they were still faced with the fact that they were trapped. She could wait and die or journey into the darkness and hope she’ll find a way out.

With the predicament setting in on her mind, she remembered his her uncle use to make ironic jokes about having a bad day, usually asking “Good day, huh?”—or something like that—with a snide chuckle when he knew damn well it wasn’t. She used to just join him in his laughter and accept the harmless fun, but Clair felt like she could stab the son of a bitch who asked her an eat shit question like “Good day, huh?” in a time like now. She couldn't imagine too many scenarios that were worse than getting trapped in a storm then getting trapped in the Underworld amid that storm, and then waking up on a bed made of dead worm monster. And she was hungry. To say she was having “a bad day” was a repulsive understatement.

Willow awoke with an agitated growl, catching Clair’s attention. She turned to see her cat slowly and painfully standing up. Clair smiled and knelt by Willow, rubbing her hand through his sticky, ichor-drenched fur. Willow glared at his human friend with worried eyes, after which spontaneously jumping at her, planting his front paws at the base of her neck and licking her chin with his sandpaper tongue.

“I’m glad you’re alive too, Willow.” Clair said with a half-hearted laugh.

When the moment passed, Clair began thinking about their situation. The first thing they needed, evidently, was light. She thought hard about how to make a fire or some sort of torch; something a little more sufficient than a box of matches. There was no wood and no kindling, and any relatively useless item she could use as kindle was soaked through. She figured she could just stumble around in the dark until she bumped into something like Carter did in his time, but with the Underworld undoubtedly swarming with bloodthirsty beast like d’holes and ghouls, doing such a thing would be rather idiotic. Light would provide a mobile haven against the myriad of light-sensitive monsters.

The thoughts of fire were briefly pushed out her head by a considerably more pressing mater: food. If she would have been more conservative with her jerky, she would undoubtedly still have some and, foolishly, she was also without a water canteen. Going on the assumption that she could gain water from natural reserves was in hindsight an unwise choice. It didn’t take very long for Clair to figure out where her protein would come from, though. She glanced back at the slimy d'hole carcass and shuddered. She brought her blood covered hand beneath her nose and cringed at the smell.

Awful, she thought, but tolerable. The taste would be a different matter though.

She unsheathed her knife and began carving out a piece of the d’hole’s flesh. The slick, goo covered chunks of meat felt like a dead itozu snail covered in pig fat in her hand, but she reluctantly braved it and put a small strip of it in her mouth. The taste was horrible beyond description. She gagged and nearly vomited as she felt it slither down her throat.

When the taste was, for the most part, gone, she waited.

It hadn’t killed her or made her regurgitate her entrails, so at least she had that. Willow, however, seemed unbothered eating the dead d’hole. Like his feral cousins, he clawed and gnawed at the mangled flesh, struggling to rip off a piece and swallow it.

Clair reluctantly cut a few more chunks of meat and put them in her bag. Afterwards she looked into the darkness, trying to think of where to go. There was no apparent way out, so the next best thing to do, so Clair thought, was to continue Northward. She figured for a moment that the light coming from the hole would provide some clue to the suns position and therefore her destined direction. The light was dimming, suggesting that the sun was soon to set. If she were to create a source of light or cook up any useful plan. she had very little time to do so.

Upon the thought of lurking predators, she took a deep breath and pulled Willow closer with one hand as the other fell on her knife.

“I’ll be safe. I just have to stay on my toes.”

She then heard a faint moan in the dark, like the weak growl of a wolf, but filtered through a gurgled ambience. Clair instinctively froze and Willow's head perched up with his hairs standing on end as he faced the unseen entity. Clair stared into the darkness in terror. She heard something slither through the bones, mixing sharp cracking noises mixed with a sick slushing sound. She looked back down at the fading circle of light in which she stood. It had already moved about a meter and a half from its previous spot, leaving the dead d’hole. When the inevitable darkness comes they would be left at the monster’s mercy.

Clair thought quickly. She needed light; that was an immediate priority, but how to obtain light she had no idea. The creature moaned again and Willow responded with a sharp hiss. She could see his little body quaking in primal fear. As Clair franticly searching her bag, Willow assumed his pouncing stance. The creature moaned again, this time letting Clair know it was closer. She gasped in horror when she saw the faintest trace of white cut the darkness and then recede, like a giant slug slithering not far from the edge of her haven. Clair looked up at the hole, noting that sunset was creeping closer. Panic nearly set in before her fingers brushed the rugged box she was looking for. She instantly pulled out the matches, struck one, and prayed to the gods that the measly light was enough to ward off the d’hole. She quickly got her answer when its bleach white head erupted out of the darkness like a hideous Jack-in-the-Box, snapping it's three-part jaws at the screaming girl. She fell backwards in shock and landed on her rear. The match slipped from her fingers as she tried to force away the d’hole with her feet and it landed on the inside of her coat, which quickly caught fire, far quicker than a damped garment should.

“Shit!” she yelled. Feeling the searing heat dangerously close to her abdomen, she impulsively removed her burning coat. Without warning, the d’hole lurched forward again, this time catching full sight of the blaze that Clair held. It's beady eyes seemed to shrivel with the flame's ember glow and it growled in pain, slowly tucking it's bloated form back into the dark. She could still see it's coiled mass waiting outside the light; a massive milky vulture waiting for it's time to strike again.

On the ground, her coat still burned bright and hot. A quick glance and she saw the fire was almost entirely concentrated on the spots stained by the d'hole's fluids, creating an odd, patchy blaze that reeked of burning flesh.

Then, she understood. Somehow, the creature's blood was flammable.

Clair quickly got the idea and carefully wrapped her coat around the notched end of an abnormally long femur, creating a make shift torch. She stood, leering at the darkness and the d’hole within, then ran at the thing despite her fear. Now is the time that her threadbare melee training will come in handy.

The beast hissed. Seeing that the human intended to attack, it pounced again, uncoiling it's serpentine body in one swift flex. It moved to avoid the fire, shifting around Clair to strike from behind. Clair turned as quickly as her reflexes allowed, swiping the torch through the space between them, leaving a bright streak of orange light in its wake. The d’hole shrieked again, recoiling as it's eyes seemed to dim and shrink. Clair saw the opportunity and acted upon it. She unsheathed her knife and charged, shrieking the Ultharian battle cry and sending it's echoes through the cavern. She forced her blade into one of the d’holes eyes and pulled it as soon as the thing's green blood began flowing out like lava. Its head shot up towards the cavern sky, letting out deafening cry of pain like the shriek of a massive cicada. Clair stepped back, holding her torch in a battle stance as if it were sword. The d’hole regarded her with its remaining eye in fury and its jaws rapidly quivered in hunger. It then charged again, mouth opened to its fullest extent, revealing it's heinous collection of hook-like teeth. Clair flanked around it, allowing the d’hole to crash head first into the bone littered ground, sending out a cloud of dust and shards. She stabbed its injured eye again, this time feeling its mushy skull break and give way to her blade as it plunged deeper into it's brain. Clair pulled her blood-soaked arm away, letting more of it's fatal blood run free.

She rammed the torch into it's head for the killing blow, submerging the fire in the gap in it's head. For a brief instances, she firelight dimmed to nothing, but like a hellish flower blooming at intense speeds, massive tongues of fire erupted out of it's head through every orifice. She fell back to void the twisting plumes that billowed out of it's jaws like dragon fire, blackening teeth and scorching lips. It's skin radiated orange, making plain it's burning interior. As the thing gave a resounding roar and thrashed about on the ground in confused agony, flames swallowed it's length with a repulsive hiss. Clair stepped away, grabbing the frightened Willow as the beast became a glaring mass of fire that illuminated a sizable portion of the ground. They waited, and eventually the d’hole died, it's charred and blackened remains settling to the bones behind the veil of smoke and dimming fire.

Clair stared at what was left of the d’hole for some time, feeling a mild guilt for killing not one but two of them. She had to for her and Willows sake, but she never thought she had to kill anything for any reason other than food. She sighed. Willow regarded the human with soft eyes and a gently swaying tail, seemingly happy that danger was avoided. She slowly paced over to the d’hole. With a cringe, she wrapped trembling fingers around the unburnt end of the torch and jerked it out of the mangled head with an ugly slushing, crackling sound. To her surprise, it still burned. She turned her gaze to the dark, dreading what else might be lurking therein.

“We’re still alive.” She sighed, somewhat unable to believe she confronted a dweller of the Underworld and lived to say those words.

She grabbed her things—which ended up scattered across the bones during the disarray—packed them in the bag and hoisted it over her shoulder. She noted that her torch was quickly dying, the fueling blood dwindling away beneath the flames. On a half educated guess. she figured she only had about an hours worth of light before it fell to nothing. After that…

She was reluctant to think on what would happen after that.

“Dammit.” She cursed. Unfortunately, it was an issue for a later time. The only thing she could do now was make the best of what little light and resources she had, and hope for the best. She journeyed into the darkness with Willow trotting at her heels.

Above her, the sun had set in the overworld.


	8. The Darkness in the Underworld

For uncounted weeks, nothing was visible. Everything was lost to the omnipresent mass of darkness that filled the caverns. The torch had burned out long ago, depriving Clair of what little visibility she had before. Now rendered blind, she trudged through the Underworld with no clue as to where she was or where she was going. She only had her other four senses to help navigate, but even those had no use in this quiet, stagnant world beneath the soil. What’s worse was that she was freezing. The sunless air, devoid of anything the atmosphere of the Overworld had to stir it, gradually began to nip at her bare arms, so she held them close as she walked on. Eventually, the cold had gotten bad enough that she was willing to burn relatively useless items for heat, given the complete lack of wood or any other kindle. She even burned her map and Elder Sign cup. They only burned for a few seconds, or a minute at most, but the small instances of warmth were relieving. For a time, she even considered burning her boots, but deemed it counterproductive. On reflection, she found this level of desperation somewhat disturbing, but it felt mostly pathetic. Her father had taught her much, but surviving in an environment of eternal night was not a skill either of them ever considered.

Every so often she would rest, or at least try to. The anxiety and fear of predators constantly kept her vigilant. So to speak, she would glance over her shoulder (somehow ignoring the fact she couldn't see no matter what) expecting some random horror to appear and silently rend her.

Also keeping her from sleep was the cold, which proceeded to get more and more bitter. That was especially unnerving, the only change in the air proving deadly for her. She regretted burning her coat. It couldn't have been helped now, she knew that, but still the irony in trading her means for continuous warmth for brief but strong heat was enough to keep her in a sour mood. However, she did find the fact that her coat had technically saved her from a monster kind of quaint.

She feared for her sanity, as she had before, but here she was in near complete isolation, which was often said to be the biggest instigator of madness. Willow was there, of coarse, but in total darkness there was very little to betray his presence; only the minute taps of his paws on bone and the occasional but random mews of protest. Oddly, she even began to forget her own presence. How that kind of thing happens she could never answer, but being blind in an almost sterile world for days on end has a funny way of forcing one to loose the sense of self. Perhaps it was her perpetual vigilance keeping her mind solely on the imagined antagonists lurking unseen all around her.

Whether it accelerated or prevented her loss of mind, she would often say something aloud—softly or at the top of her lungs—just to break the nerve wrecking silence. The things she said wasn't always random, blurting anything from her own name to various bits from her favorite songs; but at times she would feel anger pooling in her, especially whenever she would recount the events that led her to that moment, and made that anger vocal.

In darkness, one has little to do save to fear and think. And she thought about much when her frequent edginess eased, and above all she thought about Nyarlethotep. She feared him, that much she was sure of (Who wouldn't?), but hatred began to surface in time. She was so unsure of it before—primarily because she was scared to even think of such a thing, given that the Crawling Chaos could evidently take up residence in her mind—but now she knew she hated the dark god more than anything. Until that moment, she had no clue she could loath something so much, but the seething corruption of contempt she held towards Nyarlathotep was enough to drive her into a spontaneous fit.

"I fucking hate you." She growled, as if the god could hear her. She was hoping he didn't, but in all likelihood he could. That would never cease to be a scary thought.

As her enraged voice spread through the cavern, she noticed that there was no echo, meaning no walls and no ceiling. If there were any, then they were far, far away, giving the Underworld caverns an unnaturally enormous size, like an unimaginably vast chamber. She wondered, if she could only see, what the Underworld would look like with walls miles away from one another and a roof as high as the Overworld sky. It was darkly fascinating to think of such a place, and even more so to imagine she was actually in the midst of it.

She also noticed she never bumped into anything aside from mammoth sized bones (Euoi Dragons came to mind) and the much-too-common skull mounds. There were no stalagmites. She figured they must have been buried in the ocean of bones millennia ago. What was most disconcerting, however, was that they were in the open and vulnerable to attacks from ghast, ghouls or whatever was down here and she would never see them coming. But she was sure they could see her. She pushed that thought out of her head the moment it came.

“I hate this place.” She groaned. Willow meowed in agreement.

Clair had been keeping a sharp ear. She carefully listened for any signs of Willows little footfalls to assure he was still there. They never stopped. Only wavered. Every time he would slow down, she worried that he was growing weak from hunger. All she could do was hope that the d'hole cuts were enough to sustain them both.

She had also been listening for any signs of predation. She knew that somewhere in this vast cavern something was waiting for her. The idea of encountering a ghoul especially bothered her. She had never seen or met one before, but one thing she has heard from village legends was that they were savage as any animal, but as cunning as a human. Given this analogy, she often wondered if ghouls were closer to either man or beast. Depending on whom she asked, she heard both, but evidently that never changed the fact that they were, well, ghoulish. She also knew that ghouls rarely had a taste for living human flesh. They mainly preferred to eat dead, rotting corpses harvested from human graveyards with the same casualness that a farmer would harvest berries off a bush, but on occasions they were believed to kill people and let them “ripen” before they ate them. This never happened often because humans were innately paranoid, vigilant beings and always remained wary of any dark places where ghouls are suspected to lurk. Now here they were in a dark place. In their blind state, the lone cat and human would make easy prey.

She rummaged around her bag, feeling for the sick, slippery cuts she harvested from the d’hole. She found one and begrudgingly nibbled at it after giving Willow his share. She would have liked to have vomited it out as it slithered down her throat if it wasn’t for the fact she was so hungry. She wished she had water. Her mouth was becoming unbearably dry, and the d'hole cuts, for some reason, only made it worse. Plus, she desperately needed to wash out the taste. But alas, there was no water, let alone anything that would help with survival in the Underworld. On reflection, she found it odd that she was enjoying the natural beauty of the Overworld (In hindsight, a rainstorm would look very beautiful now, especially without water) only a day or two ago, believing life was as wonderful as the vast Cerenarian or Ulthar beyond the river Skai, and now she’s trekking the most horrible domain in all the six regions and all it took to find it was falling down the wrong hole.

The stark contrast in the Overworld and the Underworld brought to mind how her father had told her the world was gray. Not black, not white; gray. He said there is no definitive good or evil to speak of, just a world where moral philosophy and natural benefits differs so much from person to person or creature to creature that such shallow concepts become meaningless to the “big picture”. One man's sin is another man's virtue. Nodens could only say who is wrong or who is right, but Nodens is never among the mortals, and thus his moral lines are never known. Her father claimed he learned these things during times of war when he ran with the Battalion. He saw men mutilated in battle to change the religious systems of other Sovereignties. Such wars were quite common in a confederate region like Skai. On the contrary, she’s seen sigils depicting ancient ideas of the opposite nature; a world where good and evil, with a clear line between them, govern the ongoings of the world. The latter idea was always easier to grasp, especially now.

She rubbed her arms, feeling the gooseflesh that arose with every random chill that struck her. There was no breeze (for such a thing would indicate a nearby cave exit), but the temperature was still dropping. Her only guess as to why this was happening is that she was going deeper underground, which was the exact opposite of where she wanted to go. “I fucking hate you, Nyarlathotep.” She repeated at random with brief burst of anger. She could almost hear his wicked laughter. Undoubtedly, he was amused.

After a time, the sounds of Willow's footfalls stopped and he suddenly began purring, throwing Clair out of her thoughts. It was a rather unexpected noise given the present circumstances. At the same instance, she noticed a very strong and very foul odor. Cringing as she closed her hands around her mouth and nose, she tried to determine what it could be. The smell reminder her of a rotting ox she had once found that had gotten lost and ultimately died somewhere in the plains of Skai only a couple of years ago. It's rank wafting off it's purifying, worm ridden hide was something she couldn't readily forgot. Whatever she was smelling now, she assumed it was dead.

“Willow?” she called into the darkness.

The cat continued purring. Every few seconds he would make a slurping or smacking sound as if he was…

“Willow, what are you eating?” Aside from the fact that she was querying a cat, Clair knew she didn't need to ask. She put two and two together very quickly.

Willow meowed in apparent delight and continued to scarf down the unseen carcass, shrouded somewhere in the dark. Knowing that Willow was consuming a spoiled morsel, her stomach was practically turning inside out in disgust, but nonetheless she was still starving for something other than d'hole. To her shame, Clair began feeling slightly jealous of the cat, who apparently enjoyed something—dare she think—exotic.

That thought only succeeded in furthering her horror.

Clair sniffed the air again. The foul odor had become more prominent. She moved to strike a match, but hesitated at the thought of what she might see. A bear that had gotten lost here and died? A fungus laden yilxima? A long dead Ibite? Another fucking d'hole? Groaning at her self conceding, she lit the match and created a warbling, orange sphere of light that illuminated her haggard self and the copious bones at her feet. The measly glow only lasted a minute, but it was enough to help her find Willow. To her horror, she saw her cat hunched over what had once been—not an animal or a nameless Underworld monster—but a person. As if Willow had no idea he was consuming human flesh, he continued eating in glee, ignoring the little light being cast over him. The sight of him clamping hungry jaws around the ichor covered blackened flesh of a dead man forced her lose her breath a moment, while allowing bile to rise and pool at the back of her throat. She skimmed the scene the second before the match burned out. The body was barely recognizable, what little of it she could see that is. It was merely a pile of half gelatinous muscle and tattered, dark gray skin encrusted in black fungi and centipede-esque creatures that skittered and burrowed about like termites in wood, all cast chaotically over bones that still held the general human shape. The slack-jawed skull was draped in strands of flesh which hung like vines on the side of a tree. On top of the opened chest cavity was Willow, feasting on the bodies rotting entrails.

The scene was horrifying, especially since it involved Willow, but not nearly as horrifying as the implication it made: There were ghouls nearby.

Knowing Willow would be the easier target, she snatched him up, put him her satchel bag for protection—ignoring his agitated howling—and continued walking in caution.

Days seemed to pass and the duo have not come any closer to escaping. No change in atmosphere. No sounds of the surface world. Nothing to change the never ending facade of pitch. Clair trudged endlessly through the sea of bones in the darkness, all the while losing morale and what little hope she had. Her blood felt as if it was going freeze inside her veins with rising anxiety and her stomach was beginning to turn violently with the rancid d’hole meat she was eating. She constantly searched the infinite darkness around her with tearing eyes, desperately trying to make out any sign, any difference, and any way to let her know she was making progress, but there was nothing except more of the titan shadow and the loud snapping of ancient bones beneath her boots; a sound that hastened her decline in sanity. Willow was getting more and more impatient. He would often howl and hiss while thrashing around inside his prison. Clair felt bad about keeping Willow in there and hoped he would understand, but there was hardly anything else to do.

Days more passed and still no sign of salvation.

At this point, seeing no use in continuing further, Clair had completely given up. There was no light and no heat; she ran out of food; she was starving, dehydrated, freezing, and she could barely feel her blistered feet. Willow seemed equally as affected, for he had quickly fallen sluggish and quiet inside the bag. He had vomited a few times, completely unable to handle the d’hole meat, much less the rotting corpse. What little food she did have before it had completely ran out proved more harmful than nourishing. Aside from the obvious starvation, the very noticeable diminishing of her sinew muscles, and the head spinning bouts of nausea, the d'hole cuts has given her a score of rashes. Not surprisingly. Her skin had numbed, eyes dried, throat made ragged, and joints cramped.

Surely, now will be the day she dies. Clair had no idea what to do now but sit down and cry. She curled up on the bone piles, buried her head in her arms and wept. Willow, who had slipped out his bag, began slowly prowling the area looking for a meal that would never come. The sound of his tiny, stealthy footfalls grabbed Clair’s attention. She sat up and stared into the direction she thought Willow was in with tears running down her cheeks.

“I’m sorry, Willow.” She croaked with a voice that remained unused for several days. “I never meant for this to happen.” Never before had she felt more hopeless or more forsaken. After thirteen years of unconditional worship, Bast and Nodens seemed to have forgotten them both. “We’re going to die.” That was all Clair could say now. Willow only mewed in response, his voice carrying the same mournful croak as the human's.

She considered what her father would have done in a situation like this. A war hardened man trapped beneath the earth, robbed of his sight and any and all form of subsidence. What would he do? Clair rarely asked herself that. She's never been in any real danger, so until the incident with the d'hole her threadbare fighting abilities and virtually nonexistent quick thinking skills were never put to use. Father, after his tour of duty, wasn't much of an imposing man nor was he ever in any situation like this. Like any farmer, he was just a person. Clair suspected he would have died here. In fact, she thought he would have died days ago, much like she should have. She could have been wrong, but she felt like she was in the Underworld for well over a week. If starvation didn't kill her, exhaustion would have. She realized it was a miracle she made it this far, still somewhat alive. Was it wrong, however, to hope she would just die and let this nightmare end? Prolonging an inevitable death hardly seemed like a miracle, yet somehow it happened.

She wanted her parents. She wanted them to be there for her and comfort her when she finally passes on to the next existence, as she had always hoped her death would play out. All she wanted was to speak with them then and tell them everything she never had a chance to say before leaving Ulthar. Only Willow would be there though, but she worried he would die first, leaving her to later die alone. Morbidly so, it would be the better option anyhow. It would end his suffering much more quickly.

As an afterthought, she reflected on how Carter had handled this situation during his misadventures. As much as she would have liked to believe her crisis was in any way similar to his, there was no telling just how long Carter was trapped in the suffocating depths of the Underworld. If she remembered properly, that whole chapter of his Dream-Quest was briefed in only three or four pages. Hardly any justice to a blind hike that lasted weeks. Anyhow, these thoughts felt ultimately pointless, believing they couldn't save her from slipping into oblivion.

Grief and agony continuing to weigh on her, Clair silently wept until she began to see a small anomaly through the haziness of her tears. It was small, very small, but against the unending darkness it stood out clear as day. It appeared to be a sort of orange speck of light in the distance directly ahead, like a firefly. She thought it might have been some sort of illusion or hallucination, for she was starved and fatigued well enough to justify such a claim, but none the less it provided her just a little bit of hope; hope she hasn’t seen in many days. As she strained her sight, she began seeing more of the tiny lights, arranged in an apparent three-dimensional configuration with columns reaching towards the seemingly nonexistent ceiling and rows stretching in every direction save her own. Running every possible explanation through her mind, only a few made any sense. After almost no time spent on deduction, she assumed the lights were the traces of towering pillars with a myriad of torches along their height; an artificial structure.

Without as much as a second thought, Clair ran towards the distant field of pillars at a mad speed with Willow following closely behind. Skulls and bones cracked and disintegrated beneath their hurried footfalls, complimenting their exhausted panting with a cacophony of snapping and popping. The lights drew ever closer, slowly revealing the dark grey cylindrical forms of the pillars. Her head was instantly flooded with hundreds of wonderful thoughts of escaping the Underworld and returning to the Overworld where she would be able feel the warm rays of the heavens’ sun and smell the sweet perfumes and nectars of the spectral groves along the humming shores of the Cerenarian Sea. If only these edifices could point the way!

"Please, good Nodens". She silently prayed, every syllable mixed with her labored breathing. "Let this be it! If you loved me, this would mean my escape. Please, please, please!"

Before long, she was nearly skidding to a stop before one of the glowing columns. The pillars, which were over a hefty ten meters in girth, were adorned with seven gas torches evenly spaced around the circumference, each contributing to the dim globule of light that made the pitted surface of the pillars and the bones beneath them visible. More torches, in similar arrangements, were mounted higher on the pillar. All around, arranged like the columns of a king's chamber, were more of the massive, carved pillars, each giving of its own isolated glow that dwindled as the pillars got further and further away. The surfaces were etched with various glyphs and crude images of hounds or men that looked like freakish graffiti, all mashed together in an intricate and dizzying way that required careful scrutiny.

Clair remembered a story from her childhood and instantly lost what little hope she had to fear. It was a take about a mad artist named Pickman who had fallen in league with the Kingdom of Throk, home of the Ghouls, and very quickly payed for it. She didn’t remember much about Throk, but the images of vast, torch lit pillars and jagged mountains pointing to a black sky like titanic needles stuck to her mind like tar. To her dread, she had foolishly wondered right into the home of the ghouls, and the sketches on the pillars depicting dog-headed beings feasting on screaming men and women was proof enough of this.

With a panning glance, she assured and was alone before silently skulking back to the shadows, hoping to could leave unseen and unheard. She had not even taken two steps before Willow began hissing at some unseen thing in the darkness. She stopped cold in trepidation. For a very long moment, all she heard was a profound silence until a barely audible meeping or croaking creeped out of the darkness, followed by another, and then another. Whether the speakers were ghouls or anything else she didn't care to find out and wasted no time in fleeing, stopping only to scoop up Willow and hold him in her arms. She ran, plunging deeper into the forest of stone pillars, trying to stick to the small pockets of light. Her booted feet crunched and ground the bones with a rapid succession of loud pops, surely leaving a very noticeable audible trail. Beyond her own footfalls, she heard the meeping and howling of her pursuers growing more vigorous. The sounds of their own feet striking the ground underlaid that, ceaselessly becoming louder as they gained on their prey. Clair quickly and briefly looked back. The antagonists were not visible, but their labored breathing and growling could be clearly heard now, suggesting that they were just beyond the reach of the light. Clair kept running, trying her best to keep her wit intact. Willow kicked and struggled to break free of Clair’s hold, but she refused to give in to Willow’s protest. She would rather let the ghouls kill her first if they get caught and give Willow a small chance of escape.

She unsheathed her knife in preparation for the inevitable fight, but kept running in hopes of escape. She quickly looked behind her once more and saw a pair luminescent, red eyes following her in the darkness and all around she could see more, bobbing and darting through the shadows, keeping their bloody gaze locked on her.

Without warning, two of them leaped out of the dark, charging at her with teeth bared and black lips soaked in drool. The dim torches gave the pursuers form and Clair could see that they were pale and malnourished things that were like sickly hybrids between humans and dogs with a deeply ribbed, anthropoid torso and arms, all atop a pair of hooved and double bent legs. Their faces were like those of severely deformed and hairless wolves. Their skull-like snouts and scar pitted scalps were covered in skin that looked nearly mummified. Their eyes were beady, black and red orbs deeply set into near cavernous sockets and their maws were so wide they resembled sardonic but maniacal grins.

Screaming, she tried running faster but the pursuing ghouls were far too quick, so she did an abrupt turn and faced one of the beast. Despite her fear, she let out the Ultharian battle cry as the ghoul made its final leap at her, jaws agape and dripping saliva. She thrust her knife forward and felt it wedge into the ghoul’s ribcage. It stumbled backward in shock, letting out a painful roar as blood cascaded out of its chest and down its pale abdomen. Clair took advantage of the moment and continued running, only looking back to see more ghouls dart past their dying comrade (Only one stopped to pay any attention to it) and continue their chase. Inside her arms, Willow was getting more and more restless. He kicked and struggled so furiously that Clair considered putting him back in her satchel until another ghoul leaped at her. She narrowly avoided it with a quick roll to her left and briefly saw the ghoul stumbling over itself as it tried turning as quickly as she did. She quickly found her path blocked by another ghoul, and when she tried turning another way, another ghoul halted her. She took a quick look around her and discovered, to her horror, that she was trapped in a circle of the pallid beasts. Clair knew all too well that she was as good as dead, but hoped that her mildly sharp wit and only hunting knife could save her somehow. She took her battle stance and prepared for a fight. Willow squirmed out of her grasp and gracefully landing into his own fighting position.

The ghouls around her, regarding the girl with predatory snarls, hissed and gibbered, clawing at the ground in anticipation. One of them, a tall and brooding ghoul who was presumably their leader, leered at the girl’s blood covered knife, half watching with interest as she leered back.

With a swift gesture, the leader ordered two of the ghouls to converge over Clair, one wrapping it's fingers around her neck, claws lightly but painfully digging into her throat while the other grabbed and pinned her arms behind her, wrenching her knife out of her fist. Despite the pain in her neck, she screamed as they forced her two her knees, soliciting an animalistic chuckle from one of the beasts and prompting Willow to start clawing at it's ankles. The ghoul barked in fury and kicked the angered feline off of him. Clair watched in horror as Willow rolled across the bones, mewling in pain.

The knife was passed from the still laughing ghoul to another, who sniffed the half dried blood covering the blade, sneered, and then handed it to another. Her only weapon went from claw to claw—each time being regarded with fury and disgust—until it landed in the grasp of the head ghoul. It's crimson gaze coldly examined the knife's edge, flaring nostrils taking in the reek of the blood that flowed from one of his own. He looked to Clair—who sat shaking on the ground—with more than primal hunger. Pure hatred laced the burning pools of red that were his eyes. Clair wouldn't have been wrong in assuming the ghoul intended on doing more than just killing and eating the girl.

A light brushing at her side brought her attention to Willow, who, to Clair's misplaced relief, had survived his assault relatively unscathed. The feline gazed at Clair with fear struck eyes, as if asking Clair if they were about to die. Clair knew she was probably done for, but thought that Willow had a chance for survival if he could simply run.

"Go…"Clair said with a hoarse voice. Willow didn’t move. He simply crawled into Clair’s lap and sadly mewed. Willow looked at the terrified Clair again with a stare displaying compassion, more so than he had ever given the girl. Clair would miss him and could tell that he would miss her, but he had to leave.

“Go!” she shouted. Willow stood his ground. Once more, the ghouls around her chuckled in an inhuman way, savoring the girls suffering before they could feast. Willow stood, putting his face close enough to Clair’s that she could smell the decaying flesh that corrupted his breath, and licked her dirt covered nose. There was then something new in Willow’s gaze: Intelligence; a dangerous yet caring intelligence. Clair had always thought Willow was smart, even for his kind, but she saw hints of a form of knowledge and wisdom that only few humans could ever hope to rival. It was almost as if Willow was a divine entity who was only visible through the normally opaque windows of the cat's eyes. A child of Bast, confined into a mortal vessel.

Suddenly, Clair heard a very gentle and very distant voice in her head. At first the words it spoke where incoherent, like senseless babble being uttered and echoed on the far end of a tunnel. The voice became clearer in the span of a few seconds—which to her felt like years—but fell silent in a mournful way as Clair looked for the last time into the cat’s golden eyes. She rubbed her bloody hand through Willow’s fur and realized that, somehow, the voice was coming from Willow.

“Leave here now, Clair”. Willow said. “Run and do not turn back. I love you and pray that Bast will be ever with you”.

“Willow…?” Clair had whispered, almost completely astonished beyond words. "I…I love you…". Before she could say more, Willow leaped out of Clair’s lap and darted at the head ghoul in a dizzying burst of speed, feet moving quickly over skulls and ribs, and slim body targeting his enemy like a mad but righteous living bullet. Before Clair knew it, Willow was howling his hellacious anger as he leapt at the subterranean beast. He dug his claws into the ghoul’s abdomen, gaining purchase for another jump at the ghouls snouted face to which he latched onto. As the ghoul stumbled backwards and flailed wildly in confusion, the cat held his ground, hissing and growling as he clawed and butchered the ghoul’s already scarred face again and again and again, leaving a score of bloody ravines in the ghoul's hide. Clair (and not to mention the other ghouls) stood petrified as Willow mercilessly continued to ravage the ghoul leader with a level of strength and persistence that should not have belonged to a cat.

With a roar of defiance, the head ghoul ripped the hysterical cat off his face, but only succeeding to do so by letting the stubborn son of Bast rip away a sizable portion of his jowls, opening a bleeding hole to the stagnant Underworld air. He then violently slammed the cat onto the ground with the force of a hammer coming down on an anvil. The shock only briefly stunned the cat, but it was enough time for the ghoul to pin him down, and raise Clair’s knife above the struggling feline’s body, ready to end Willow’s life.

“NO!” Clair screamed as she quickly stood and rushed to her friend’s rescue, but she was too late. With a single arching of his arm, the ghoul brought down the knife on Willows chest, cleaving flesh and bone and liberating a cascade of blood that washed over his already impure fur onto the bleached bones beneath him. With a final gasp and a convulsion of his frail form, Willow fell silent.

Clair stopped and watched in utter disbelief as Willow lay dying before her, knife sticking out of him like a grisly monument. The way it stood, slicked with a crimson-metal sheen brought stomach acid rocketing to the back of her throat. Looking at the weapon, it felt like she herself had killed Willow. Her body weakened, and she fell on her rear. Her hands covered her trembling mouth and tears streamed down her face, cutting through the black dirt that covered it. She looked one last time into Willows eyes as his life faded.

Willow was gone.

The mad storm of emotion that raged through her head was unlike anything she felt before. The hatred, anger, fear, grievance, sorrow, guilt, and hopelessness was too much to bear in that moment, so she simply froze, trying to make sense of the chaos in her mind as well as the chaos in tangible world, which seemed to have been shot to the nine hells in only a few seconds.

In Ulthar there is a law that forbids the killing of cats, yet the only reason that law existed in the first place was to assure that Ulthar or its people were never smitten by Bast or her children. It would not be surprising if Bast were to suddenly kill the ghouls for their crimes, and a part of her felt good about that. Yet she would not be surprised if she herself were also to be stricken, and a part of her felt good about that. She wondered if Willow would transcend and go to Heaven or Elysia with Bast or J’Hov-ah—the obscure god of the mad Ramblers in Nir—and a part of her felt good about that. But Willow was gone now, and the knife protruding out of his corpse was a testament to the fact that Willow could have lived if she had only left him in Ulthar with their family. Clair would accept divine punishment from the Elder Gods if only Willow could live again or if she could undo everything that has happened since she left Ulthar.

Considering all that's unfolded, Clair wondered if the Gods have ever cared or if they had forgotten about the insignificant likes of humans and cats. Worse yet: did they even exist? Was Willow’s calming voice just delirium? Was Nyarlathotep’s voice just delirium? Were the old scriptures and rites of priests and monks just nonsense? Would the Gods ever hear any human suffering or even act on it? She had lived a good life until now, but Clair had lost someone infinitely important to her and she couldn’t bring herself to cry to Bast or Nodens again. After all the pain and unheeded prayers, Clair truly wondered if the Gods were dead.

Silently, the head ghoul grinned—distorting the bleeding wound in his lip—and leveled a twisted finger at the crying girl before him, signaling the other ghouls to kill her. But everything stopped as the sound of two loud, sharp, and brief explosions cut through the Underworld.


	9. Salvation

Clair pressed her hands to her temples. The deafening sound of the explosions sent a shock through her ears and into her head. She had never heard anything like it before, but it vaguely reminded her of high-end firecrackers like those used in Ulthar’s Liberation Days (when Ulthar was freed from Hatheg’s domain), yet this new sound was far louder and far fiercer. After the sounds came silence. She opened her eyes to see her dog faced captors gazing off into the darkness behind her, their shocked and angry faces dimly aglow by the nearby torches. On either side of her was a dead ghoul, each one with half its face apparently blown away and replaced by gaping, mangled wounds, as if they were actually slain by firecrackers. They were the same ghouls that had restrained her and Willow. Quickly realizing she might also be in danger, she checked herself for wounds, but only found that she was covered in warm splatters of ghoul blood.

“PICKMAN!” a voice shouted out of the shadows. The head ghoul’s scowl seemed to steepen and he meeped in anger at the unseen being in the darkness, who Clair turned to behold as he emerged. He was old, probably in his sixties or seventies, and wore a slightly ragged outfit that resembled a gentleman’s suit. His face was heavily lined and haggard with a full head of silver hair and a short beard. In one hand, he held what Clair could only assume was a gun, much like the ones the guards of Thran were armed with, and it was pointed right at the head ghoul’s forehead. In the other, he held an odd, stick-like torch or lantern with an unnaturally steady beam of light currently pointed at ground. The man’s eyes, which were filled with concern rather than fear or anger, glared at the ghoul’s red, loathing eyes.

“Pickman,” the man repeated. “I’ve already told you I never want to see you hunt another live human again. You eat the dead, not the living!”

The head ghoul, Pickman (Clair was surprised to learn the fate of one of her childhood monsters), growled in defiance and took a few steps closer as the old man slowly approached. Though Clair was caught in the middle of a standoff, she quickly remembered Willow. Her sight instantly found her friends bloody remains and she quickly crawled over to him, ignoring the ghoul and the human that were about to kill each other. Tears flooded her eyes again and her face turned red as she held the cat she had known so long. She gently pulled the knife out of her friend’s body and tried to clean as much blood out of his fur as possible. After which she simply sat, silently sobbing and cradling what was left of Willow.

“I can’t let you harm another one.” The old man said to Pickman. They were now standing face to face. Pickman stood at his full height, towering an extra foot above his adversary, who planted his trembling gun underneath Pickman’s jaw.

Pickman meeped and snapped his jaws in aggression and the man clicked his gun in response.

“I guess you’re not wrong. You can do whatever you want, but I’ve know you for several hundred years, even before you degenerated to…” the man gestured at the ghoul’s grotesque body for emphasis. “…to this! I know you’re better than this! You used to care about living humans…”

Pickman roared in response, dousing the man’s face with saliva and breath that smelled like rotting corpses.

The old man smiled, wiping some of Pickman’s spit off his cheek. “I’m not afraid to kill you my old friend, but please, for the love of Christ don’t make me do it. All you have to do is walk away and leave that kid alone.”

Pickman gave a low growl.

“Yes, I’m sorry I killed Kalio and Zas, but I’ve got to look out for my species too!”

Pickman stood silent. His crimson eyes narrowed and then he leaned into the old man’s ears and whispered something in labored English. “Had eh-nuff…of you. Fock you. Go…die.” The ghoul said. Pickman signaled his comrades to retreat, and they all loped away in defeat save for Pickman and a large, hunchbacked ghoul who struggled to lift and carry the two deceased ghouls over it's shoulders. As Pickman continued his hateful leer, showing no signs of backing down, the old man wondered for a moment if he would have to kill his old friend after all. They’ve done amazing things together over the years, both on the long-forgotten Earth and in their native realm. After the wild journeys and battles fought against the Moon-Beast, it was very sad to watch one of his few and closest allies degenerate into something worse than a ghoul (for he had already known that Pickman was a ghoul at heart, but still a noble being). Once, Pickman only ate what ghouls ate and in doing so equalized the natural order that humans upset by burying their dead in concrete vaults where they couldn’t return to the Earth and become part of the cycle again, but in recent centuries Pickman’s taste developed and he began craving living human flesh. Whether it was under Pickman’s control or not the man could not tell, but he could never allow anyone to fall victim to such atrocious whims much less allow an old friend to become a monster. Randolph Carter hated the thought of having to kill him, but fortunately he didn’t

Pickman slowly backed down, crawling away over bones that were once meals several generations ago. He merged with the darkness and vanished, returning to those he considered his kin. When Carter was sure Pickman was gone, he holstered his gun and turned his attention to the young girl he had saved. She didn’t seem to notice him. She was still cradling and sobbing over the dead cat. Who’s to say Carter couldn’t understand? Not only had he seen firsthand the crazy and amazing shit cats can do, but he had met many Ultharian cats in his travels, most notably a particular black kitten who served in Ulthar’s secret battalion. Each and every cat he met proved to be a noble and loyal creature capable of immense wisdom and care. For the death of one of her own, Bast is surely weeping along with this traveler, that is if there is a Bast.

“Are you alright?” Carter asked.

Clair didn’t respond. She didn’t even hear her rescuer talking. Carter silently walked up to the girl and crouched next to her. Her face was stained with dirt and blood and her eyes were bloodshot and weary looking as they weeped over the body in her arms. She was gently stroking the lifeless cat’s fur as if he was still alive.

“Hey.” Carter gently called.

Clair only paid him a brief, sideways glance and went back to stroking Willow.

The old man signed, placing an aged hand on Clair’s shoulder. “It’s tough, I know. I’ve lost plenty of friends myself.”

Clair didn’t respond.

“I know it’s not the best time to ask, but what are you doing in the Underworld?”

Still no response. Carter understood, though. She was obviously in shock.

“Look,” Carter said. “I can imagine you’re starving, cold, need somewhere to be. If you’d like, you can come over to my house and I can give you plenty of food and water. You can get some rest and tell your story later. Does that sound good?”

There was a long silence. Carter didn’t expect the girl to answer him, but eventually she gave a slight nod in approval.

Carter looked at the dead cat the girl was holding so close. “We can also bury your friend in a more respectful place.”

Clair gave the old man a dull glance and responded in a hoarse voice, just loud enough to hear “His name is Willow.”

Carter gave a slight chuckle. “What a lovely name. Speaking of names, what’s yours?” he asked as he helped the girl to her feet.

“Clair of Ulthar.” She struggled to gain purchase on the uneven ground while also trying to keep Willow in her arms.

“Ulthar, eh? I’ve been there. Such a wonderful little town.” Carter picked up Clair’s bag and flung it over his shoulder. “I hope you don’t mind if I help you carry your things. You seem to have enough to worry about. Anyways, I’m Randolph Carter of Boston.”

A slight look of recognition came across Clair’s face and Carter couldn’t help but smile. “Yes, I’m that Randolph Carter, but you can call me Randy.” He manifested his odd light devise out of his pocket. As he turned the more bulbous end of its cylindrical body, a bright ray of light shot out of it and sliced through the surrounding dark, out-glowing even the nearby torch lanterns. Clair tried not to seem as astounded by Carter’s unusual tech as she actually was, but Carter noticed anyways. “Oh, I forgot. You Ultharian people aren’t used to modern day technology, are you?” Clair could hear the faintest trace of arrogance in his voice. She knew that wasn’t at all true, and couldn’t help but feel a little offended. She had seen and used technology before, albeit the occasions were awfully rare. Plus, Ulthar’s burgomaster and some of the other high-ranking citizen’s (especially the dean at the University) were notorious for using new devises like automobiles and phones. While Clair quickly affiliated the thing with Ultharian “electro-torches”, it was still unlike anything she had ever seen in both structure and brilliance. “It’s called a ‘flashlight’” Carter said.

Without another word, Carter began his trek into the darkness, following the beam of his flashlight. With Willow’s peaceful body in her arms, Clair followed.


	10. Carter

It took less than an hour to reach the shadow shrouded stairs that led to Carter’s home in the overworld. It was like looking at the base of a mountain when the foot of the stairs came into view; a huge, rocky slope ascending upwards into the dark, completely covered in bones and unnatural looking outcroppings save for the wide, fungous encrusted flight of steps that bisected it. On closer inspection, Clair could see a myriad of worm things flopping and flailing about on the damp rocks. Many of them huddled around the stairs, condensing into little white disk of flesh.

“Take care around those things.” Carter warned. “They’re d’hole hatchlings. They themselves aren’t all that dangerous, but if you step on one their mother will come after you, no matter where you’re hiding. And trust me, you do not want to meet an adult d’hole.”

“I think I already have.” Clair mumbled. Willow’s carcass was growing disturbingly cold in her arms.

“You didn’t. If you’ve met a fully grown d’hole, you wouldn’t be alive to tell the tale.” Carter ran the beam of his flashlight up the stairs, displaying its full grandeur. “It won’t be much longer till we get to my place. Just mind the babies and you’ll be fine. Oh, and don’t slip on the puddles either. D’hole babies piss a lot for some reason.” Carter stepped aside and gestured towards the stairs in a courtly manner. “Ladies first.”

Together they ascended. The air gradually became less and less cool as they approached the sun-warmed cavern ceiling that separated the Underworld and the Overworld by just a few feet of soil and rock. The stairs, aside from being drenched in excretions, fungoid goo, and a myriad of other disgusting things, were also loose and crumbling. Chunks of stone the size of a man’s fist broke away with every few steps, rolling down the stairs. It crossed Clair’s mind that the debris could pose a threat to the d’holings and, incidentally, her company, but her own balance is what concerned her. Her sore, malnourished arms were already having difficulty holding Willow’s body, and the fact that she was also struggling to stay on her feet every time she struck a loose stone didn’t help. But at the very top of the stairs, slowly fading into view, she saw a soggy, half rotten wooden door standing out from the surrounding earth. After countless weeks of trudging through bones, eating d’hole meat, and fearing for her life at every second in pitch black darkness, it was only a bitter victory to see the threshold of a human abode and the surrounding world of sunlight. The fact that, by the damning grace of the gods, she had made it and Willow didn’t was far too much for her to bear. She couldn’t forgive herself for surviving.

Carter slipped past Clair and approached the door. The jiggle of his fumbling keys as he picked the tarnished locks awoke Clair from her thoughts and her focus fell on what lied behind the creaking door. Light from the other side flooded the small area around the door, temporarily blinding Clair’s light starved eyes. She covered her eyes, taking only small peeks at the brilliance beyond to allow her sight to adjust. She heard Carter pass through the door, whistling a lively tune that sounded kinda like “The Being Anthem” from Ulthar’s (or Nir’s) festive autumn seasons. After noticing that Clair was having some trouble seeing, he guided her past the door, shutting it with a loud rattle once she was inside.

Eventually, after just a few seconds of rubbing and blinking her eyes, she was able to see again and was astonished at what was beyond the door. Put simply, it was the home of a king, or at least a part of it. Stretching before her, about eight meters or so, was a decadently ornate hallway with a scarlet rug and beautifully intricate wallpaper covered in floral paintings and bronze reliefs of mountainous scenes far more spectacular than Hatheg-Kla was in person. Above hung a series of glass chandeliers, gently casting their ghostly candlelight over several robust doors. Next to her, Randolph was carefully hanging his flashlight, keys, and revolver on a set of brass hooks.

“You should go ahead and make yourself at home.” Carter said. “The living area is the third door on the left, the kitchen’s beyond that, and the bathroom is the second-to-last door at the end of hallway. Don’t worry about getting the furniture dirty or anything. It’s all either leather or wood.”

As Carter talked, Clair zoned out and eventually focused her attention solely on Willow. She gazed at the blood encrusted body in her arms with disturbingly blank eyes. He was cold. Clair realized that since Pickman had slain him (and damn it, how she wanted to make him pay for it!), she had been constantly stroking his fur, all the way to the stairs and up the stairs, until now. Petting him as if he was still alive. Clair still couldn’t believe he was dead. The more childish and naïve part, the one that was slowly dying or perhaps dead already, desperately wanted to believe he was just sleeping. But Willow was dead and gone forever, the proof being the coldness of his body.

Before Clair knew it, Carter was scooping Willow out of her arms. “Where I come from,” Carter began “there was once a group of people know as the Egyptians and they revered cats as gods.” He carefully cradled Willow as if he was his own. “It was part of their religion to preserve their dead, especially the cats, so that they may live on in another life. Would it be okay if I preserved Willow?”

Clair only regarded Carter with a glare full of bewilderment and contempt. She could have sworn Carter had just asked her to…

“You’re going to stuff Willow?!” She shouted, making Carter jump.

At first Carter could only stutter, wondering where she had gotten that idea, until he realized his error. “No, no, no. I don’t mean ‘preserve’ as in ‘stuff’! I meant mummification! It’s just a spiritual thing, you don’t have to agree to it.”

  
“What? Why would you want to mummify him? He’s…You know what, I guess whatever the case it doesn’t matter. Just, please, don’t do anything too horrible.” Carter could see she was on the verge of crying again.

“I promise I’ll take care of him. Just go eat something, get some water, whatever you need, and relax. I’ll go tend to Willow.” With that, Carter took his leave, vanishing behind the door at the end of the hallway, leaving Clair alone.

With Carters’ directions, Clair quickly found the living room, which was far more striking than she could have guessed. Aside from the large and amazingly comfortable-looking sofas and exquisitely decorated fireplace mantel, the place looked more like a miniaturized museum. Among the more unconventional and amazing pieces of memorabilia were several crystalline objects and jewelry cast in pure gold and shining rubies, and apparently made for beings other than humans; demon or satyr skulls that leered through their glass prisons with hateful eye-less sockets; statues of varying sizes and material depicting fat toad-things and indescribably horrible creatures with tentacles; towering bookshelves containing hundreds of old and tattered books, some presumably written by a “STEPHEN KING” whose name was printed in ridiculously bold letters; and a few miscellanies items like an odd coffin shaped clock that sat in the corner emitting weird noises and a larger-than-normal key made of tarnished silver that had a place of honor above the fire place. However, the most interesting items was also the least weird. It was just a painting, but it was what it depicted that filled Clair with a sense of wonder and dread. The image was that of a vast, deserted plain hued in dark sand and stones. On the horizon, reaching towards the dreary, starless sky, was a jagged mountain range which was even darker than the plain it overlooked. The tallest and darkest of these mountains stood in the center of its native range and was so tall that its peak was shrouded in the clouds. Underneath the frame was a small, brass tag that read “Kadath, The Dark City of The Gods”. All along Clair could have only guessed what the home of Nyarlathotep and the surrounding desolation looked like, but here it was, a meek foreshadowing of the land of doom and chaos that was to come. Where the actual “city” was in this landscape, Clair didn’t know but assumed that it somehow crowned the tall mountain, hidden behind the veil of clouds. A mild sense of fear crept into Clair’s heart as she wondered what hellish perils awaited her in the desolate land of Leng and the slopes of Kadath.

She was suddenly reminded how hungry she was when her stomach emitted a low growl accompanied by a not-so-subtle cramp one would only feel if he or she was near starvation. Almost by instinct, Clair rushed to the kitchen and instantly smelled cinnamon. She then spotted a clay cookie jar and, without even thinking, removed the lid and began devouring the stale cinnamon-honey cookies within. One after another, she practically inhaled the treats until the jar was almost licked clean. Then she moved to the sink, which was equipped with a kind of running faucet system that, until now, she had only heard about in rumors. She turned on the cold water, extended the snake-like faucet nozzle and directed the unexpectedly high-powered water jet to her mouth, only noting for a second how much it hurt to swallow so much water at once. After a few seconds of indulgence, she noticed a stack of drinking classes stacked on the counter next to the (electric?) oven. She quickly grabbed one, filled it and proceeded to raid the fruit basket sitting on the wood carved dining table.  
She went on like this for some time; eating, drinking, eating some more, eating again, drinking another glass, eating again, devouring this, drinking that, until her hunger was finally abated. Afterwards she rested, sitting at the dining room table and surrounded by crumbs, paper wrappers, two or three empty mason jars, numerous spent apple cores, and a glass that she had filled and refilled at least thirty times. She took the time to appreciate the tastefully decorated aspects of the dining room-kitchen area and noted that it very much resembled, unlike the rest of the house, a typical peasant kitchen complete with basic wood floors, cotton drapes over the windows, an oil lamp over the table, and an assortment of worn, wooden utensils hanging on the wall. The only difference being the seemingly out of place cooking machines, like the little metal box in which Clair had experimentally put in a bagel and it had come out fully toasted in less than a minute!

But her own musky odor surfaced after all the masking fragrances of the fruit and cookies were eliminated. She supposed now would be an appropriate time to bathe.

Remembering where Carter said the bathroom was, she quickly found it and locked herself inside. Much to her fascination, yet not at all surprised, she found the bathroom to be as equally as exquisite and well decorated as the rest of the house. There was a claw-footed tub with floral curtains draped all around and, needless to say, a toilet, which was made out of porcelain of all things. The floors were covered in marble tile and there was a small table in the corner, topped with nothing more than a small vase with a bundle of flowers in it. She then noticed the sink, capped with another faucet and a perfectly clean mirror. It hit her that, after such a long time without a clean, homely place to reside, she could look at herself in an actual mirror and see the damage this journey has done to her. She approached the mirror and at last came eyes to eye with herself. First thing she noted was her hair, which was as black as usual, but now draped over her thin and dirt stained face in greasy, stringy clumps. Her green eyes were rimmed with darkness and bloodshot and her shirt was tattered and faded. She had obviously fasted quite a lot for she seemed much leaner and sickly looking than when she left Ulthar. A few minor wounds stood out along her skin, left bloodied and untreated. The blood from the confrontation with the ghouls was still there, covering her clothes and skin in small, dark splotches and specs. She couldn’t help but wonder just how much of that blood was hers and much belonged to the ghouls or Willows.

Overall, though, she wouldn’t have believed the person she was staring at was herself if she wasn’t already certain she was looking into a mirror. The haggard, savage looking girl in the glass did not at all seem like the one that had reluctantly departed from Ulthar just over a month or two ago. In the emerald eyes of the refection Clair saw a vile mix of humanity’s worst aspects: hate, bloodlust, cruelty, fear; all of which for the ghouls and the dark soul of the Crawling Chaos, but yet there was no strength of will or mind in her gaze. Behind that shroud of primality was the same meek little girl that left behind her home and family in naivety, honestly expecting to come home one day. Willow cannot come now and neither will she, so she thought. She will die going to Kadath and will be driven beyond madness doing so. She knew this because Nyarlathotep’s influence was still in her, his hateful, mocking voice speaking to her soul.

Suddenly she remembered the knife sticking out of Willow’s dying body. Her own knife. She knew deep down that it wasn’t her hand that slew Willow, but it might as well have been. She was to protect Willow along this dangerous path, but didn’t and she will forever bear the guilt of that. If she couldn’t protect one precious cat then she sure as hell will not be able save herself in Leng or Kadath when the time comes.

A brief burst of exhaustion brought her back into reality. Remembering why she was standing in the bathroom in the first place, she proceeded with her bathing, scrubbing away the filth this journey has brought upon her.


	11. At Home

                Carter finished his task at around ten-o-clock that night. Mummification was an art form he had studied much of during his adolescent years in Boston, yet he had only performed it once in his life until now. If he was preserving a human the process would have taken weeks, but instead he was working on a cat, so he was almost sure that by the evening of the next day, Willow would be ready for burial. For now, though, he had left the deceased creature alone in a dry room, buried in salts, organ-less, and with embalming fluid in his veins. A plethora of ceremonial jewels decorated the small table on which he sat. He took a few steps back, gazing sadly at the poor creature that his former friend had killed. True that he was very angry at Pickman, but not nearly as much as he was sad for Willow and his human companion. No feline death was an acceptable thing, for cats are greater than men, and in a way much more different than Nyarlathotep and the child-like gods of Kadath.

                Carter never fully believed in the spiritual aspects of mummification – that the soul will be reborn if and only if the body was preserved – and he still doesn’t, but he does believe fully in the human soul thanks to a certain encounter with Yog-Sothoth and an alien wizard. A part of him, ever since childhood, had faith in the unknown and the eternal meta-physical cores of human beings. We are all a part of Yog-Sothoth, so Carter believed, and in turn we are immortal in a way. Clair, unless she too has a miraculous encounter with the All-in-One, will never understand this considering the narrow worldview of a typical Ultharian. There’s even a distinct chance mummification will bring no closure, but it’s a common idea even in the Dreamlands, and maybe a sense of normality will bring about a sense of truth. Who knows?

                Carter sluggishly paced out of Willows temporary room and locked the door behind him, the smell of embalming fluid and other weird elixirs stuck to his cloths and followed him out. He hoped it wouldn’t offend his living guess, but judging by her haggard look, she had already been “offended” enough.

                Upon entering the living room (which he had always thought was inappropriately crowded, but couldn’t do anything about it since his attic, basement, and all his closets were completely full) he saw Clair slouching half asleep on the recliner. One booted foot was propped upon the coffee table and her head was leaning on one of the chair’s arms. Her eyes, underneath her scraggly and still-wet hair, were half shut and locked on some non-existent thing in front of her. Her clothes were yet unwashed. The blood that had spotted them, however, had been carefully scraped off, leaving a multitude of faint, brown stains. A mournful face completed her dead look. Carter wondered if the girl was actually asleep or just in some kind of daze, but quietly entered the room anyways. On his way to the couch across from Clair’s own seat, he took a quick look into the kitchen to assess the damage. One empty cookie jar, Twix wrappers, and a toppled over drinking glass sat scattered on the table along with crumbs and half-eaten apples. The sink and the surrounding area was doused with water, as if the faucet was carelessly flung around. Worst off was the fact that his pantry was nearly empty.

                Oh boy. He’s gonna need to do some shopping afterwards.

                As Carter lowered himself on the couch, Clair’s (unnaturally) emerald eyes shot open and silently studied the old man. He couldn’t help but feel unsettled by the girl’s gaze, as if she was deeply disturbed. Although Carter figured that would make sense considering the child just came out of the Underworld, not to mention narrowly escaping the maws of a pack of Ghouls. He could already tell Clair, undoubtedly, had too much on her mind, so Carter made it a point to tread carefully when dealing with the girl.

                Carter only gave a welcoming smile in response to Clair’s barely noticeable nod. He was never any good at idle socializing. “Hi.” Carter attempted small talk. “Uh, how are things?”

                Clair pouted and pretended to look around the room as if thinking. She raised her head and straitened her back so that her eyes were level with Carter’s when they finally steadied. Carter could almost hear the girl thinking “What do you think?”

                “Okay, well, I guess I should have guessed that one.”  Carter chuckled, hardly believing he was being intimidated by a thirteen-year-old. “I just want you to know, that Willow…that the procedure, uh process, went okay and Willow should be ready by tomorrow evening, if you’re willing to stick around that long that is.”

                Clair nodded and returned to her slouching position. Silence hung in the air for a time as Carter occupied himself by lighting the fireplace. When he finished, all his odd knick-knacks, especially the time-clock and the Silver Key, seemed to come alive again in the firelight.  

                “Willow spoke to me…” Clair suddenly whispered, almost to herself.

                Carter was caught off guard. “Pardon?” he asked. Clair’s eyes fell on Carter again. Now she seemed a little intimidated.

                “Oh, it’s nothing. I was just thinking out loud.” Clair paused, continuing only after receiving a curious look from Carter. “Willow…before he…they…uh, you know. He spoke to me through my mind.”

“Anything he said in particular?” Carter inquired in genuine interest, suddenly awestruck.  

“No. Well, he said he loved me and…may Bast be with me.”

Carter had always heard that cats were “telepathic” in a way, but never before had they ever communicated to him through telekinesis. He had always talked to cats with their own language, painfully articulating his tongue and vocal cords to emit awkward “meows” and purrs. Carter, however, knew exactly what this meant for his guest. “That’s really amazing Clair!” he said. “Cats don’t ever speak into the souls of humans unless their eternally bound!”

Clair’s interest seemed piqued. “Bound? What do you mean? That we’re one in the same?”

“In a way. It means that when you return in another life – you know, after death – you and Willow will be reunited! You haven’t actually lost Willow, nor will you ever. He just, well, got a few extra steps ahead of you, so to speak!”

“That’s…uh, I can’t believe that.” Clair mumbled.

“I know! It’s amazing!”

“No. What I mean is that I can’t bring myself to believe that. It doesn’t seem true to me, like another lie.”

Carter’s face saddened. He knew it was true; Carter knew the uncanny ways of cats far too well, he just couldn’t believe that an Ultharian of all people couldn’t believe it. “Why is that?” Carter inquired.

Clair shrugged. She returned to her somewhat uncomfortable slouch, halfway burying her face in the arm of the chair. Carter thought she was about to go back to sleep, until he saw her eyes glistening with tears. “I think I’m going insane. Nothing seems real and nothing seems to make sense anymore, so…” she trailed off.

“I’m sorry to hear that, but what makes you think you’re losing your mind? I mean you seem perfectly sane to me.”

“I’m having these weird…visions, I guess…and dreams or nightmares. They’re horrible.” Clair wanted to stop talking about her curse since she had no idea how to put it lightly.

Carter leaned back, crossing his arms. “So, what happened in these dreams? Do they have anything to with you being so far away from home?”

“Nyarlathotep called me to Kadath.” Clair said plainly.

Carter’s face turned white. “Th…the Crawling Chaos?”

Clair nodded.

“Oh. Well, uh…do you know why he called you?”

“I don’t know!” Clair cringed. Tears began to run down her face. “Stop asking! I just want to sleep, okay?” Sobs chocked her voice.

Carter nodded. “I understand. Come a long way, got a longer way to go. You deserve a little rest.”

Clair sat up. Her emerald eyes, rimmed with red, stared down at her dirt-crusted boots, dripping tears on her toes.

“But listen.” Carter continued. “For just a minute, please.”

Clair wiped the tears out of her eyes, waiting for Carter to throw in his two cents.

“I’ve met Nyarlathotep before,” Carter began. “I’m sure you know about that. He’s horrible, I know, and I’m not gonna lie, he’s worse in person, but I need you to promise me, Clair, that you’re going to be brave when you enter Kadath. I was terrified when I first saw him, when I first heard his voice and it’s weird because he’s not some crazy, indescribable, eldritch thing either. He looks like a pharaoh; like a really sexy pharaoh.” Carter hoped the last remark would make the girl laugh and make the moment a little less tense, but it apparently failed, succeeding in only making the moment awkward. Carter cleared his throat before continuing. “But he literally radiates the very essence of malice like a true monster. I can easily say he is the most dangerous and treacherous thing in all of existence. You will be scared, just like I was, but you must remember that these dark gods feed on terror. Like a bully they only get more powerful and more sadistic with the more fear you show them. I walked into Kadath and stood up to Nyarlathotep with my back straight and my chin held high and I survived. I faced Yog-Sothoth the same way and I survived. I stood against the d’holes of Yaddith and the Unnamable and Bokrug and Yibb-Tstll, and I’m still alive. We’re like bees, Clair, and they’re like a beekeeper with bug spray. They are more powerful than us, but they can’t change how we feel. As long as we got a stinger and the willingness to lay down our lives, we can hurt them, and we can make _them fear us_.”

Carter paused, allowing himself to breath. Spurred by his speech, Clair began thinking. She understood what he meant. She had felt a small portion of Nyarlathotep’s power before and would prefer to never experience it again. She was in deep pain, but the fear was her own. She knew she had been afraid throughout the entire journey; every little thing seeming to arouse her primal fears like the nightmares of her youth, but in the end, she supposed that that was all they really were: nightmares. They could hurt her or even kill her, but the same could be said for everything else in the world. “The game changing factor is courage…” Clair said almost to herself, not entirely sure if she was restating or asking.

“Yup.” Carter said rather casually. He shrugged. “Hard to hear, but we’re both gonna die one day, and to me it doesn’t make a difference if a pissed off god does me in a few decades too early or if cancer takes me at eighty-years-old. What I’m saying is this: Those gods can torture our bodies however they like, but as long we’re alive, we’re not defeated.”

Clair let that sink in. After a few more moments of pondering and considering her inevitable confrontation with the Crawling Chaos, she gave her host a sincere smile. “Thank you.” She said.

Carter returned her smile, along with modest shrug. “I had friends during my travels; friends who had helped me a lot. I figured it would only be fair to return the favor.” Carter checked his watch (a curious little thing strapped to his wrist of all places), making a mildly surprised face at what he saw. “Its past midnight. I think it would be best if we both hit the hay. I can image you’ve got a pretty long journey ahead of you.”

“Yeah…” Clair nodded. “I haven’t gotten a good night’s rest in…weeks? I don’t know. Time got all screwed up in the Underworld. I don’t even know where I am.” Clair paused remembering the stories of Carter’s adventures. “Ilek-Vad?”

Carter’s brow furrowed, as if in disgust, at the name. “No. Far from it.”

“You mean you’re not the king anymore?”

“As far as I’m concerned, Ilek-Vad doesn’t exist. It’s a long story; I don’t want to bore you with the details.”

“Oh. Then where are we?”

“Eastern Ooth-Nargai, about forty miles from Mount Aran.”

“What?! That means I’m near Celephais! Holy shit, that means I must have travelled _under_ the Cerenarian Sea!”

Suddenly Carter started laughing, leaving Clair utterly baffled. “Kid, where did you learn to talk like that?” It took Clair a few seconds to register what her host just asked. As Clair thought about the question, Carter tried shaking off his last laugh (and greatly struggling to do so).

“What do you mean?” Clair asked, still unsure what Carter was talking about.

“’Shit’. You said ‘shit’! Young ladies – hell, no one from Ulthar talks like that. No offense, but it’s just weird. Ulthar is just too, you know, conservative.”

“Uh, I guess you’re right. No one in my family has ever used that word…or a couple of other words I admittingly used since leaving my home. And I don’t think anyone else I’ve ever met has talked like that.” For the first time Clair genuinely wondered how and why she’s able to use such strange words. “Where the fuck did I learn to talk like this?” She said with a mild giggle, which Carter shared.

“You know the only people in this realm that’s ever used profanity are Dreamers, right? You’re not a Dreamer, are you?”

Clair remembered her encounter at Thran. “No, I’m not.”

“Odd.” Carter said simply before taking another glance at his watch. “It’s almost two. Better be getting to bed now.”

And with that, the two parted and made their way to their own rooms, wishing each other a good night, but Clair learned not to expect such things. She knew that Nyarlathotep and Azathoth awaited her.


	12. Where Hatred Boils

"By the poisons of our fear's seed   
May thy agony and anger be freed."  
                               —Unkown

 

 

 

 

Before she slept, the night seemed almost blissful in a rather surreal way, despite the lurking dread and fear that constantly skulked in the back of her mind. It may have been due in part to the fact that she was sleeping in a real bed in a heated room after weeks (months?) of sleeping outside on matted ground in the cold night air. The guest bedroom, Clair thought, was a near perfect combination of color, aroma, and light, seemingly designed for the sole purpose of forcing anyone into a deep sleep. In short, it was a very comfortable room. There was very little furniture to speak of; just a massive bed—adorned with down pillows and silk blankets so voluminous it was like laying in warm, fabric quicksand, simply sinking into the depths of comfort—and two nightstands on either side, decorated with nothing more than a very colorfully decorated (but far more elegant than gaudy) gas lamp and a clay vase containing a small assortment of flowers, which radiated the perpetual scent of citrus and cinnamon. The carpet, apparently made from sheep's wool, was almost as soft as the bedspread and twice as white. There were two windows; both were slightly open and partially covered with rose-colored drapes. Aside from the lamp, there were no other sources of light, so the room was only dimly lit in the constantly flickering lamplight.

The ensemble was absolutely hypnotic and seemed to lull Clair's withered nerves to sleep the moment she stepped into the room. She collapsed onto the bed without tending to her normal pre-bedtime rituals or even undressing. Her journey was far too long and the sight and feel of a real bed was beyond blissful. The citrus fumes emanating from the strange flowers and the cool, light breeze from the windows caressed her senses and slowly lulled her to sleep.

Her last though, before slipping into her expected nightmare, was of Willow. On countless nights in Ulthar, Willow would curl up next to Clair as she slept soundly in her old bed, dreaming of pleasant, peaceful things. Every night she would wish the dear cat a good night and every morning she would awake to find him still curled by her side, stretching his paws as he slowly rose and awoke. They would eat breakfast together and spent the day working in the fields together until dusk, where they would repeat the daily cycle together. But those days are over now. Willow had slipped away into oblivion, leaving Clair alone to face an uncertain fate at the mercy of Nyarlathotep. Clair, of course, could never forget what she allowed to happen and, incidentally, will never forgive herself either, but she knew she will eventually have to move on. Willow is dead and there is nothing that Clair nor the gods—whether they are alive or dead—can do about that. Despite her desperation, Clair couldn't bring herself to believe that Willow will return in the afterlife. Ultharians have always hid in superstition and hopes that the gods will bestow mercy and a beautiful world after death, but Clair had seen the dark corners of the world and felt the hands of malice rather than those of protection.

Her belief in the imaginary concept of good was now void.

Before she could ponder any further, sleep had overtaken her and, after long moments of total darkness and unconsciousness, she found herself standing in the middle of a vast and arid plateau covered in jagged boulders and fine sand the color of ash. The sky above was moonless and would have been completely dark had it not been for the vast, yet not-at-all wonderful, dome of stars arranged into unknown constellations. The air was bitter, far below freezing and constantly being stirred by strong and sudden gust of wind. Had this been her own reality, she would have certainly froze to death, but being nothing more than a ghost in this world of mental energy, she only got the impression of being cold rather than actually feeling it. The overall atmosphere of the place was dreadful, and instigated a sense of distance from anything good or hopeful.

Clair thought the place was familiar but couldn't place where it was she had seen it until a distant mountain range came into view. It was misty and barely discernible from the night sky, yet she could still see the jagged peaks like mad shapes cut from the starlit sky. Her eyes slowly followed the line of mountains until she caught sight of the singular, monstrous mountain who's crown seemed to reach five times as high as the other mountains. If fact, this one mountain seemed so tall that even at this immense distance, Clair had to tilt her head upwards to see the peak, which was lost highest reaches of this arid atmosphere. Suddenly she remembered that particular painting hanging in Carter's living room and knew exactly where she was.

"Kadath…" she said in dreadful awe.

"Wrong." A sullen voice suddenly echoed out of nowhere. Clair impulsively turned and quickly caught sight of a tall, shadowy figure standing no more than ten feet away from her. It was clad in a pitch black robe that seemed to obscure every feature of the specter save for its piercing red eyes. Despite the unfamiliarity of his form, the aura of absolute evil was something she had felt before.

"Nyarlathotep…?"

"Although, doubtless, you are close. Welcome to Leng, child." The Crawling Chaos smirked. "I must say, I'm impressed with your persistence. I thought for sure you would die in the Underworld."

It took a short moment for Clair to overcome her shock at the bleak and arid land she was destined to tread before she asked "Why did you bring me here?"

"Why ask these questions, Clair, if you know I only plan on answering with either silence or riddles. You're here because I want you to be here. No more. No less. My reasons are my own alone."

"If this concerns me then I have a right to know why I've been dragged from my home town." Immediately following the last syllable, a mild yet horribly familiar pain crept into her skull, and for a moment, she feared Nyarlathotep would deepen that pain.

"Don't question my motives, child." Nyarlathotep tightened his mental grip on Clair, furthering the pain the girl was feeling. She dropped to her knees—barely feeling the the pointed grains of sand and dirt dig into her shins—and managed to suppress a pained howl. "For all you know" Nyarlathotep continued, "—and all you should know—you're just a pawn. You're here to serve my purpose and that's all."

He released Clair, who's relief instantly showed on her face. After rising to her feet again, she locked eyes with the apparition before her and said, against her better judgment: "Somehow, I don't believe that…"

"You don't? You think that, may haps, I demand your company because you're important? Because I deem you worthy of something? Perhaps I'm bored and I want a new toy?"

"Would I be wrong?"

"Maybe not. But you're still human."

"What's that supposed to mean? Why can't you just tell me what you want?"

"Because, Clair, I'd rather show you than tell you."

"Show me what?!" Clair took a few cautious steps closer to her visitor, ignoring the bitterly cold wind that struck her. "Why the fuck can't you just tell me anything?! What could you possibly want with me of all people? None of this is making any fucking sense!"

Clair fully expected to be repaid for her outburst with another migraine, but instead the dark god gave an ominous chuckle. "I always love it when you humans are desperate for answers. Always asking for reason and logic, yet never getting it. It always drives a man mad. It's as if the one thing any human being can't stand is being left in the dark." Nyarlathotep paused to give his red faced captive a sly glance. "However, the few times they do get answers, the reality of their predicament shatters their mind."

"Is that why you won't tell me anything? You think the truth will drive me insane?"

"Maybe. It all depends on how strong your mind is, but yours, unfortunately, wouldn't be up to par. Anyone who breaks down over the death of a lowly creature such a cat surely would not stand any chance against the horrid truths that lurk behind everything in existence."

Clair's temper flared at the mention of Willow, but barely managed to hold back a string of swears and insults. Instead she turned her back to the Outer God, facing the brooding shadow of Kadath. "Just leave me alone. I would like to sleep in peace for once." she said in a low growl.

"I could, but unfortunately, Clair, you are in absolutely no position to tell me what to do!" Despite the the wide grin that stretched across his shadowed face, his voice dripped with anger and disdain for the Ultharian.

Clair ignored him. She started pointlessly walking in the direction of Kadath, hoping she would wake up soon or maybe even dive into a more pleasant dream.

"You know," Nyarlathotep continued, "everything Carter told you was a lie…"

Clair stopped in mid motion, but didn't give the dark god the satisfaction of meeting his blood-red gaze. She continued looking towards Kadath, but listened all the same.

"Good. I have your attention, child. Let me ask, who do you think I am? Do you seriously believe I'm like those half-imaginary, child gods you peasants worship? Do you think I actually I give a fuck whether you're scared of me or not? I walk on a level of existence that you human bugs will never be able to fathom, so why, pray tell, would I ever concern myself with something as common and pointless as your petty fears?"

Silence lingered between them before Clair realized that that wasn't a rhetorical question. She shrugged and said "From what I've heard, you've built yourself quite a reputation. All I've ever heard is how much you enjoy making humans suffer."

"I don't really 'enjoy' it, so to speak, but on the contrary, I don't really care whether you creatures suffer and die or not. What you refuse to grasp, however, is that I have plans of my own. At best, humans are casualties. At worst, you're pawns. The bottom line is simply this: don't ask questions. It gets really annoying after a while. I expect you to be a good girl and follow my every word, like the dog you are."

It was at this point this Clair's temper finally boiled over as she found the courage to talk back. "Get out of my head and leave me the fuck alone, you fucking creep." she snarled in a low voice.

Nyarlathotep started just a little, and his eyes widened just the slightest. Then, his darkened features contorted in unimaginable rage and his eyes became like twin, blazing pits of hated and fury. "Do not ever speak to me like that again child!" Nyarlathotep roared in a distorted voice. "You're lucky I let you live this long!"

His words didn't wound Clair in the slightest. At this point, Clair would have rather die than be subservient to Nyarlathotep any longer. She turned and shouted "Fuck you!"

"That's it!" Nyarlathotep returned, "I've had enough of this, you little bitch!"

Suddenly Clair was seized by a myriad of barbed tentacles that seemed to have manifested out of literally nowhere. They tightly coiled around her arms, legs, and torso, digging into her flesh and drawing blood with their thorns. As they turned and writhed, digging up and casting aside bloody chunks of her flesh, she screamed in unbearable agony, closing her eyes as tightly as she could to block out the sight of her own body being torn apart. She heard Nyarlathotep laugh, and it echoed throughout Lend, surrounding her in its malice. Somehow she knew he had fled back to Kadath to continue awaiting her arrival, but that made no difference to her then. She felt her left arm, now completely devoid of any flesh, ripped from its socket and felt the barbed tendrils snake into the opened wound to cause more damage from inside. Her emerald eyes shot open, releasing the cascade of tears they were withholding. She shrieked in infinite pain as her lower body was penetrated and quickly ripped to blood soaked shreds. She watched in horror as she fell to the abyss below, piece by piece, leaving only her still living head and the scant remains of her torso in the grip of the tentacles.

But the horror did not end there. Her bleeding eyes followed the lengths of the many appendages until she caught full sight of the entity they were attached to. There, in the black infinity below, she saw a being that was horrifying in it's alienness, yet carried the same aura she felt in Nyarlathotep and Azathoth, but at the same time bearing no resemblance to either. It was somewhat humanoid, a twisted and horribly thin parody of an insect or dragon crossed with a human lich. There were several appendages; claws, arms, tentacles and two vast wings that were like those of a burned butterfly: black and tattered.

Then the thing shot its burning eyes towards the mangled carcass that was Clair. She would have screamed, but she no longer had any lungs with which to scream. The creature then dropped it's prey, and Clair fell right into the needle-toothed maw…

She awoke screaming in unearthly fear and pain, tightly clutching her sheets in trembling fist. She didn't dare open her eyes, fearing that that nameless thing still lurked nearby, waiting for it's prey to behold its twisted form for it's own sick glee. She stopped screaming and started taking deep breaths, trying to recollect her wits. She sat up, opening her eyes to behold the peacefully decorated guest room of Carter's house, the shadows still gently fluttering in the lamplight. She looked down at her own sweat drenched form and was relieved to see she was still alive and intact. Her breathing eased. She buried her head in her trembling hands.

"Oh gods…why?" She quivered.

"Clair?"

She was startled by the sudden sounding of her name. Her fear struck eyes shifted to the door where Carter stood, clad in a nightgown and looking just as disheveled as herself. He didn't even try to conceal the revolver in his loose grip.

"God, Clair…" he rubbed his tired face, letting loose a relieved chuckled. "You scared me. I thought …a…an intruder had gotten to you." He regarded her with a gentle glare. "Guess you had a nightmare, huh?"

She shook her head. "You have no idea."

"Yeah, I know. Can't imagine what you're going through. Mr. Chaos can be quite a sadistic son-of-a-bitch, can't he?"

Clair didn't immediately respond. Her cold gaze shifted to stare at her lap. Carter decided it was best to give her the silence she needed; he could see the tears starting to well in her eyes, flashing in the ghostly lamplight.

"I just want this all to stop…" she mumbled, her voice surprisingly steady.

Carter sat down on the bed next to her. He wasn't sure if he should hug her or pat or shoulder or however one would comfort someone in a moment like this. He didn't know if the teenage girl would be okay with that. Instead he simply told her "I'm sorry. I wish I could more to help you." Sincerely meaning it.

She looked up, not at Carter but at the flickering lamp next to her bed. Her sobbing completely ceased, leaving the drying tears on her cheeks. Carter caught a glimpse of what was in those unnatural eyes of hers. She expected to see fear or sadness; the same emotions that plagued the girl he found in the Underworld. Instead he saw anger, hatred, vengeful thirst…

Strength.

"I want this to fucking stop…" she whispered, anger lacing the gentleness of her voice.

Carter saw, then and there, that somehow the Girl from Ulthar had evolved.


	13. The Burial and Thereafter

Find bliss in memories, all that you own.  
Peel away the barriers of things yet shown.

Put forth faith in any man  
And become a part of the plan.  
                           

                                 —Unkown

 

 

  
Clair and Randolph Carter stood mournfully silent and motionless before Willow's open grave, gazing with sorrowful eyes at the little concrete box—wherein contained the wrapped remains of the feline—that sat in the shadow shrouded hole that descended nearly two-and-a-half meters into the ground. The flowers that Carter had hastily but carefully planted at the head of the gave swayed in the South borne breeze in the midst of the two humans' shadows, cast by the fading light of the setting sun. Behind them, casting a larger shadow over the two, brooded Carter's home; a white and peculiarly humble hovel perched atop a low hill next to a small pong that glistened with the vanishing sun. The stars had come out and the constellation of Lomar-Khith shimmered above.

Clair, though overflowing with a mad mix of emotions, was utterly speechless, for what could one easily say when a lifelong friend was so easily taken in the midst of a sudden and yet unexplained journey orchestrated by an insane god? She still thought that Willow's death was her own fault, even as she tried to desperately tell herself that everything that has happened thus far was beyond her control. But was it by fate or chance that Willow (who was bounded to her soul, according to Carter) was damned to the same path as Clair? Could Clair have stopped this? Clair gave the night shadowed horizon a contemplative glance, as if asking the dead gods for any kind of answer. There were no real tears, just the dried ghost of tears that sparkled in her green eyes. She then looked to the North where Kadath surely waited for her. The pain, sadness, and regret she felt was briefly overrode by an intense pang of hatred as the Crawling Chaos' voice once again came to mind. As blasphemous and dangerous as the thought was, she wanted nothing more than to make Nyarlathotep pay for everything that has happened, but, alas, she knew that such a goal was ultimately hopeless, being that she was no god; just a meek and feeble Ultharian girl living in a pointless reality. There was no hope in avenging herself or Willow. With surfacing sorrow, she looked down at the casket again and quietly muttered. "I'm sorry Willow. I wish I could undo all of this."

"Bast will rest his soul until he's ready to cross into the next life." Carter assured through the lit cigar that dangled from his lips. The little firelight it carried was one of the few light sources to be seen.

"Bast is dead." Clair said, flatly.

"Oh?"

"Why would Bast kill off one of her own children?"

"Clair…"

"These Elder Gods are supposed to be vastly more powerful than the dark ones, so why is that bastard Nyarlathotep allowed to pull shit like this?"

"Clair…"

"This doesn't make any sense."

"Clair, listen"

The girl did as she was told, turning her inquisitive glare towards the old man. Mournfulness still lingered in her eyes.

"There is no point in being angry right now." Carter continued. "I've been down this path before, so I know how you feel, but you've been given a new opportunity. You've been delivered from the Underworld relatively unharmed, you've gained access to enough supplies to travel the world thrice over—my stuff, if you're asking—and through me and a few people I know, you can feasibly make a direct trip to Leng. It's sad that Willow couldn't see the end of this, but maybe it's for the better. Whatever could have befallen him before couldn't be anymore worse that what Nyarlathotep could have done to him." Carter quickly realized that that last remark wasn't very reassuring. "Nyarlathotep isn't very nice to people or creatures he has no business with."

"What's your point?" She cocked her head.

"Live and let die, Clair. You may believe the Elder Gods are dead, and it's possible that they are, but…sometimes, like it or not, death is the better way to go."

"Is that supposed to make me feel better?"

"You'll understand soon. But for right now, we have a life to celebrate." Carter said with a smile. He snuffed out his cigar and slid the reduced nub in his coat pocket. "Let's just set aside the bad vibes for now, alright?"

Clair nodded, understanding that what Carter was saying is true. "I'm going to miss him." She said looking into Willow's completely blackened grave. "He was more special to me than any human I had ever known. He's been there for me since…gosh, since I was only a tike I guess? We did everything together." A small smile manifested on her lips as she continued. "We were close, even by Ultharian standards. A lot of Ulthar's people were so scared of cats, so they always thought it was weird that I was such good friends with one. I didn't really have any other friends since I was homeschooled, but Willow was always there.

"There was this one time" Clair continued. "when I was almost three years old, Willow saved me from worms" She gave a light chuckle, tears finally rolling down her cheeks.

"Oh?" Carter gave his own chuckle.

"Yeah. I was so young, you know, so all those creepy crawlies and bugs and all were so scary to me back then. I was trying to climb this willow tree in our backyard—the same one that inspired Willow's own name—but I wasn't very successful. Not far up the trunk there was this little weird bundle, like a cocoon or a spiderling nest. I didn't know what it was at the time, which was probably the reason I didn't avoid it while I was climbing. Anyways, I tried getting a hold of it and it just snapped of the trunk, caused me to fall right on my ass. The cocoon broke open too. Turns out it was an incubator for Zich bug larvae, but of coarse I still didn't know that. They crawled all over me, thousands of 'em it seemed. They didn't…or couldn't bite me, but I was still scared anyways." She gave another forced chuckle, followed by a chocked sob. "I didn't understand. I thought I was gonna die. Then Willow came and just started picking off all the worms and eating them. Whatever he didn't devour he just casually swept away…"

"Cats aren't supposed to eat bugs." Carter interrupted.

Clair nodded. "Yeah. That's what Mom and Dad said. I couldn't really imagine it then, but now I figure eating all those fucking worms was pretty nasty." Clair sobbed again, wiping away a tear. "But he did it for me. I wasn't in any danger, but he saved me anyways.

"He did it again when we were in the Underworld. He tried buying me some time to escape by attacking that ghoul, Pickman." At this point, Clair could hardly be understood through her chocked crying. She kept her hand over her eyes in a futile attempt to stave her tears. "That's why he died. He put me before himself…he sacrificed himself…"

"You two were equals." Carter said. "You never asserted yourself above Willow and Willow never asserted himself over you."

"Yeah." She sniffled. "He was a friend. Not a novelty and not a slave. He thought the same about me." She looked up at Carter with a sincere smile that signaled that she was closer to some closure. "Would you like to say something?"

"I didn't know Willow." Carter said plainly. There was a long moment of silence as Clair resumed her inner mourning. Then, suddenly, Carter gave his eulogy after careful consideration. "I've had cats before, back when I was a young man in Boston. I use to hate the little guys, always pissing in my shoes and scratching me in my sleep, but for some reason I kept them. One was named Alex and one was named Warren…the later being named after a pal I lost in a really weird incident in a graveyard. Eventually they died, both of them from leukemia. I buried them somewhere in the woods, and didn't really think much of them at the time, but as the year wore on I started remembering all the times they both brought dead mice or birds in my house. It was disgusting, really, and I thought it only gave me another reason to be glad they were gone, but I soon learned that cats did that to show appreciation and admiration for their masters, like giving a gift. Makes sense that they do that, though. If cats love eating rodents and all, I suppose it would stand to reason that they think humans love it too."

"Your cats loved you even if you hated them?" Clair asked.

Carter nodded. "It was then that my…uh…'journeys' to this realm became more lucid. I embarked on my famous Dream-Quest and along the way I was saved from a bunch of moon monsters by a battalion of Ultharian cats. I learned that cats are one of the few allies we humans have in this fucked up universe of ours, and I developed an undying loyalty to them because of that. It is truly heartbreaking to see one of them die, but ever the more uplifting to see why he died: to protect the one who was there for him all those years."

He said nothing more that night. After he had finished he took a quick glance at the shifting stars above and then down at his wristwatch. He wordlessly smiled at the girl and after giving her a quick pat on the shoulder, trudged up the nighted hill back to his house, leaving Clair alone with Willow. She kneeled next to the open grave, gazing with blurry eyes into the dark hole where the concrete casket rested. She remembered the worms as well as the ghoul. She remembered every blissful and joyous moment Willow gave her when no one else could. She remembered all thirteen years of them being together, which seemed, oddly, like thousands.

"Thank you for everything." Clair whispered in a clear voice. She dug into her trouser pocket and pulled out the little feathered toy she had bought for Willow at the general store outside of Thran. She gingerly laid the trinket in the grave, right on top of the casket. She rose and gave Willow one final look. "May we see each other again in oblivion." she prayed. Under the darkening night she grabbed the shovel and reluctantly began burying Willow.

After another nightmare haunted slumber, she awoke the next morning feeling more drained than she did the night before. She struggled to get up, then she struggled to dress herself, then struggled to tend to her hygienic matters. All morning her mind seemed to teeter on the edge of sleep, threatening to force her whole body to simply collapse. She moved machine-like to the downstairs kitchen with little thought save for the memories of the night before and Willow's swathed form, lying motionless in the ground. It all almost seemed like a dream; less visceral yet infinitely worse than any image of Azathoth or his mad children. She hated the very thought of it, but she felt now that she could finally forget about Willow and move on without him. It felt like betrayal to think of such a notion, but Willow would have died one day anyways, so what, Clair thought, was the point in dwelling in despair?

"Good morning, Clair!" Carter's cheery voice greeted from the kitchen as she reached the foot of the stairs. "I've made breakfast, so don't hesitate to gorge yourself…again!" She entered, and quickly noticed the bounty of food sprawled on the table, complete with eggs, muffins, milk, oats, ham, grits, and a multitude of other things Clair couldn't easily identify (including an odd, flat pastry carved with a seemingly useless grid pattern). Also sitting at the table was Carter himself, still clad in his pajamas and a robe and scarfing down a butter-soaked crumpet while reading a battered novel. When he heard his guest's quiet footfalls, he looked up from his book and noticed Clair's astonishment, to which he responded with an assuring smile and a chuckle. "What's wrong? You look like you never seen food before."

"This is a lot." Clair said as she seated herself and began assembling her own plate.

"Of course. I figured you would be heading out again today, so I thought I would make a large, hearty breakfast to make sure your feeling up to, you know, continuing your journey."

"I…uh" Clair stuttered, not sure how to convey her appreciation. "Thank you…very much. This means a lot."

"Meh, don't mention it. I'm just doing what any decent person would do. What would a day be without a proper breakfast, right?"

"Right. But I was just wondering how you made all of this so fast and so well." She took a quick bite of the gridded pastry before continuing. "This would literally be considered a feast in Ulthar. We only eat this much at one time during the Sabbaths or Liberation Days, yet you so casually prepare all this within such short notice."

"Well, actually, I wouldn't say short notice. It took me a few hours."

"A few hours? How long have you been up?"

Carter silently pondered on this for a few seconds before answering "Don't know. Maybe since four-thirty or five-o-clock. Look, it's not important. I'm just providing a guest with proper nutrition. That's all."

"Then I'm sincerely thankful." She took a long swig of milk. "You didn't have to do this just for me."

"Nonsense. I'd do this for anyone. Anyways, Clair, I wanted to talk to you about this journey."

She stopped mid bite and set down the muffin she was eating. She looked up at Carter with a serious glance. "What more is there to talk about?" She retorted hoping to change the subject.

"How about I come with you? Getting from here to Celephaïs will be no problem by yourself, I'm sure, but going through Leng alone is severely dangerous. There are some—for lack of a better word—immensely fucked up things living there and, no offense, but a single, little girl can't hope to survive very long there."

"I already I knew that."

"Good. Then surely you would understand that having a little extra help is better than nothing? Plus, I've travelled these lands numerous times during my youth. I have experience. I might still be able to fight off anything…unpleasant, I guess…that could potentially threaten us."

"Thanks Mr. Carter, but this journey is my own. I don't want to drag you into this, not after all you've done to help me."

"You won't be dragging me into this. This is my choice. I can't, in good conscious, just let you wonder into a place like Leng. You could die out there! You need my help!"

"I said no." Irritation flared in her eyes, yet her voice remained level

"I can respect your decision. Frankly, though, I knew you wouldn't let me join you…"

"Carter, I really am thankful for your offer but we both know there's nothing either of us can do about this. Even if we both miraculously survive Leng, there's still the threat of Nyarlathotep. You said it yourself, he is a far greater danger than anything lurking in Leng. I don't see any point in you accompanying me, much less trying to protect me if you can't save me from Nyarlathotep who would, doubtlessly, do away with both of us if he chose to do so."

Carter sighed, dropping both the book and the half-eaten crumpet on the table. "I know."

"Then why offer me any help?"

"Because I…" Carter paused, seemingly in deep thought. He then balled his fist and set them on the table. He lowered his head and frowned. "He said I shouldn't tell you this, but Nyarlathotep came to me last night in a dream and more-or-less told me to protect you. I didn't know how to break that to you…"

"You weren't going to tell me?" Clair gasped, utterly astonished.

"No, but…"

"Then, what does this mean for our meeting? Was all this—you rescuing me and taking me in—somehow part of Nyarlathotep's plan too?"

"No! Or, at least, I don't think so. This could have been by chance or by design, but that doesn't matter!"

"Yes it does! This could mean that Nyarlathotep was orchestrating everything that's happened to me so far. I mean, for gods' sake, you weren't even going to tell me you were an agent of His! I wouldn't have know! What else has Nyarlathotep been interfering in?!"

"Look, I'm not an agent, really! I'm trying to help you, and so is Nyarlathotep!"

"The Crawling Chaos is a fucking liar! You should know this!" Clair ran her fingers through her unkept hair, fear and anger showing in her eyes. "My gods…what if Nyarlathotep is controlling all my trials? Willow could have died because of something that bastard meddled with."

"I don't think Pickman was working on behalf of Nyarlathotep." Carter reassured, not entirely believing that himself.

"Really? Unlike you, who would have walked me all the way into the throat of Kadath because Nyarlathotep told you to? You have no idea what he could be panning. He could be making you into a pawn for all we know!"

"I know, I know! But, still, Leng is too dangerous to walk alone. I only have your best interest in mind…"

"My best interest? What right do you have in judging that, especially when you're listening to Nyarlathotep?" Clair stood as her anger began reaching it's peak.

"I was only trying to help…"

"Please, just stop." Clair turned and started out of the kitchen. "You told me the other day that we can defeat the gods by defying them, yet you blindly follow His will, believing he knows what's good for me." With that she stormed outside, leaving Carter with his confusion.

He had no idea whether to pity himself for being yelled at by a tween or pity himself because he actually succumbed to taking the Crawling Chaos' word on something. Clair was right and Carter knew that. To listen to Nyarlathotep was like listening to the Boy Who Cried Wolf after he already cried "Wolf!" several hundred times. Nyarlathotep being a liar and master of puppetry was basic knowledge; knowledge that should have warranted more caution, especially to a veteran Dreamer like Carter. Although, on the contrary, Nyarlathotep is a master of puppetry. Would it be any surprise that Carter would submit so quickly to the Crawling Chaos' will given that fact?

Clair had a right to be angry. Carter couldn't have known the whole story, but he could imagine that Clair had a very good reason to be repelled by anything involving Nyarlathotep, for good (or whatever passed for "good" by Outer God morality) or bad. Why would Nyarlathotep even bother with preserving the girl's life anyways? What was so important about Clair that Nyarlathotep would go out of his way to summon and lead the poor Ultharian across the Dreamlands while calling upon old enemies (or pest. What other title could properly describe Carter's relationship to the Messenger?) to aid in this inexplicable journey.

Carter shook off the pointless pondering, knowing that Nyarlathotep, honestly, probably doesn't even have a real reason for starting all of this, or at least, no earthly reason. He's a god of chaos. End of statement. Instead, he started thinking of ways to apologize to Clair.


	14. Leaving Behind Respite

It was almost midday before Clair did anything other than sitting cross legged beside Willow's grave, fondly remembering the years she and her cat had shared. The weather was as tranquil as ever. The sun occasionally bombarded the green hills and groves that surrounded Carter's home, casting it's warmth across this small region of Ooth-Nargai. However, twisted clouds, drifting ghostlike en mass, would most often eclipse the sun, shadowing everything with a gloomy yet intoxicating grayness mixed with a perpetual chilling breeze. The flowers that served as a hasty substitute for a gravestone looked more peaceful in these morning shadows.

Eventually, Clair seemed to have run out of things to remember, which was odd considering Willow has been with Clair everyday for almost fourteen years and therefore should have provided the girl with endless hours of reminiscing. It was understandable if Clair's own memory was beginning to slip or even if the monotony of her life created the illusion of limited memories, but that did nothing to dilute the distress she was feeling. Two days after Willow's dying and already Clair was wondering if she would—or she already had—forget Willow's face or his purr or the little, joyous moments he gave her.

Thirteen years. All spent living in a humble, thatch-roof cabin with a farming father and his gracefully aging wife. Spent seven years tilling fields with said father, enjoying the familiar feel of dirt under her ragged fingernails and the scent of ripe tomatoes and freshly exhumed peanuts. Billions of moments over the coarse of over forty-seven hundred days, each one passed with Willow crouching at her side, purring in her lap, or trotting at her heels.

Billions of moments. Forty-seven hundred days. Thirteen years. One whole lifetime.

All fading as if each second were merely part of a nights dream.

"Clair?"

She barely started, taking slow glances at the shadowed world around her. The memories, what little remained vivid, were quickly pushed to the back of her mind. She looked up and behind her and saw Carter standing there, his silver locks and tarnished white shirt ruffling in the breeze. His lined face conveyed uneasiness, as if he knew exactly what he wanted to say but had no clue how to say it. After nervously glancing Westward, the general direction of Celephaïs beyond the Tanarian Hills, he plainly asked "It's a lovely day, huh?"

Clair only gave a slow nod, pushing a stray lock of hair out of her eyes.

Silence lingered in the air for awhile as the two seemed to ignore each other completely. Clair still sat next to the fresh grave, remembering, and Carter stood, stooped arms at his side, giving alternating glances between the hill dotted Western horizon and the shadowed sky above where twisting clouds still floated.

Then, without warning, Clair stood and faced Carter, yet kept her emerald eyes locked on the grass that clung to her worn boots. Carter didn't say anything. He merely gave the girl a curious look.

"I'm sorry." Clair said.

For a moment, Clair thought that Carter wouldn't respond until the old man gave her a friendly grin, stifling a light chuckle while rubbing his palm over his pitted cheek. "Clair, you don't have to apologize. You did nothing wrong." he said with sincerity.

"No. I was wrong." Her green eyes locked with Carter's, boldly displaying her regret and conveying discipline. "I shouldn't have yelled at you nor accused you of being in league with Nyarlathotep. You've went out of your way to help me and would have done more, but I treated you like you were just another monster bent on killing me. The truth is you were one of the few allies Willow and I had during this journey. I should have shown more appreciation." Her eyes returned to her boots, complementing this gesture with a shrug. "I'm been a real brat."

"Clair, stop it." Carter said. "I don't care about any of that. I helped you because you needed to be helped, not because I wanted the appreciation. And as for you yelling at me," he gave his own shrug. "What's a few harsh words to a guy who looked Yog-Sothoth in the eyes? What's a few harsh words coming from a girl who's gunning for Kadath like a trooper? Besides, I deserved it." Carter slowly lowered himself until he was seated on the ground, absentmindedly fiddling with the grass.

Clair laughed. "You make it seem like I'm a real badass. You so sure I'll come back?"

"You'll come back. I came back, and I was just a day-dreaming Bostonian who wrote cheap pulp fiction and cheesy novels. All that Dream-Quest crap was just, well, a dream."

"Yeah, maybe, but my situation isn't. This is reality for me." Clair's voice remained casual. "I'm not a weird floating consciousness from another world. No offense…"

"I never said I wasn't weird." Carter joked.

"I'm just an Ultharian. What's a dream to you is real to me. Nyarlathotep could only haunt you. He can kill me, or worse." Clair sat back down, kneeling between Willow and Carter.

"Which is why I think so highly of you. Most people would have completely lost their shit by now if they were in the same situation you're in. Here you are, scared but sane and still charging, just like a soldier."

Clair scoffed.

"If you never said otherwise," Carter continued. "I would never have believed you were a native to these Dreamlands. I would have guessed—hell, fully believed—you were a Dreamer of the strongest kind, and I mean that, which is why I've decided to let you go alone."

Clair smiled. "Thank you."

"But I will have to give you a few things."

Clair raised an eyebrow. "Like what?"

"Food, parka, you know stuff. I noticed you were kinda short on a lot of important gear. Did you seriously leave Ulthar without a canteen?"

"Ultharians drink directly from the Skai and can feed on the berries and roots of Mother Nature. I thought I could live off the land until I reached Kadath."

"There is no water in Leng, nor vegetation."

"Yeah, I know. I'll admit, it wasn't exactly the brightest idea to leave home without any spare food."

"Don't sweat it though. Fate brought you here and here is where you've got…a lot of stuff. A lot of important stuff" Carter rose, wiping loose grass and dirt off his trousers while listening to Clair's heartwarming and reassuring laugh. "Come on. Let's get packing. I'm sure Mr. Chaos would get real bitchy if you were fashionably late." Clair laughed a little more.

The basement seemed unrealistically cluttered. There were mounds and towers of boxes, crates, barrels and a myriad of freestanding oddities overlaying almost every square foot of the concrete floor. As she followed Carter through the maze of weird junk, Clair noticed several trinkets that seemed similar to things she read about in Carter's stories, including an oddly repulsive mug exquisitely carved from a single piece of ruby and a moldy soapstone statuette that might have been meant to resemble Odin.

"What are we looking for?" Clair asked as she carefully stepped over a paper box containing several copies of a book called _The Attic Window and Other Tales of Horror_.

"Many things, because you're gonna need many things." Carter answered, crouching down to examine a very aged-looking chest.

"What in specific?"

"For one thing, a coat, and a pretty thick one too. It's cold in Leng." Carter stuck a rusted needle into the chest's keyhole and began fumbling it around. Clair wondered why he couldn't use a key, but almost as if he was reading her mind, Carter unwittingly answered her. "Damn lock in this thing is broken. The original key is no longer compatible with this, but a crooked nail is." Carter gave an amused scoff. "Weird, huh?"

For whatever reason, Clair didn't answer, but Carter seemed entirely indifferent to her silence.

With a loud snap, the lid shot open, exposing the overflowing mass of tangled and moth-eaten clothes inside. "Eh, I knew I packed this thing too tight." Carter grumbled. He began digging through and casting aside the old garments and eventually pulled out a black parka with a hood lined with grey fur. He snapped the dust off and briefly examined it. "Here. Try this on." Carter handed Clair the parka. When he grabbed it and brought it closer, she instantly noticed the odd odor it produced. It wasn't dust or mold or rotting leather or anything else unpleasant. In fact it actually smelled very exotic and quite lovely.

"What the hell?" Clair inquired as she gave the coat an unnecessarily long sniff. "Is this perfume?"

"Close. It's nectar from the Choknokaka flowers that grow in the Jungle of Kled. I wore that during my first expedition—or jaunt, I guess you'd call it—there. The smell will never leave."

Clair satisfied herself with another sniff of the aromatic leather jacket.

"Just don't directly inhale too much of it at one time or you'll fall into a coma for about a month. I don't want to have to carry you to Kadath."

At Carters warning, she abruptly dropped the coat from her nose and began slipping it over her dingy cotton blouse. Clair thought it felt right the way it wrapped around her, like it was not only tailored to fit only her, but as if it literally became a part of her.

"It fits perfectly." Clair awed.

"That jacket always has. Don't know what it is about it, but it just always felt good to have it. Alright, next item. You're gonna need a gun."

Her eyes widened at this, her lips parting only a little. "A gun?"

"Yes. As you've personally seen, a hunting knife is useful, but not when it comes to fighting off anything that isn't human. Come this way." Carter shifted into the jungle of boxes again and Clair followed.

Before she knew it, Carter had directed her attention to a wooden wall mount holding a variety of "rifles", as Carter called them. They somewhat resembled the things the Thranian guards were armed with. Bellow the mount, scattered on the floor, were a number of small boxes with curious inscriptions and printed names like "Walther 6mm" and "Authentic Peacemaker". Apparently each box contained a pistol of different types.

"I'll give you the choice of which one to take," Carter said, reaching for one of the boxes. "but if you ask me I'd recommend the glock." He opened the box to reveal the shining, metal weapon within. Clair hesitantly pulled it out and looked at it. It wasn't a revolver. There was no barrel, so how it was capable of firing anything was an enigma to Clair.

"How does it work?" She inquired.

Carter gently took the pistol from Clair's grasp and pulled a metal envelope from inside the handle. "This is what holds the bullets. You don't have to rotate it or anything, just make sure you put them in facing the right direction." He demonstrated by grabbing a bullet from the same box that held the glock and carefully wedging in the envelope. "When fully loaded, just slide this back in, make sure the safety is off, point, pull trigger, and kill. Any questions?" He handed the pistol to the girl, handle first.

"I don't think so. I think I'll figure it out soon if I don't now, though." Clair shifted the pistol around in her hand, almost admiring it.

"You'll also need this." Carter handed her a worn gun holster that he seemed to have manifested out of nowhere.

Next, Carter searched a nearby crate and revealed two items a shoulder bag and a ribbon-bound scroll. "I figured you probably need a new bag, since you're other looked a little ratty." Carter said, handing her the bag. "Plus, it has extra pockets, and no one ever complains about extra pockets. This however," he handed Clair the scroll. "Is very important. I don't know how you managed to get this far without a map, but you'll probably need one from now on."

She didn't feel like correcting him and telling him she had a map until she had to burn it (and her old coat) in the Underworld.

She untied the ribbon and unfurled the paper giving the well inked map a curious glance. Ulthar was on the map and so was Celephaïs and Kadath and a few other places, but she quickly noticed something very concerning.

"This map is incomplete."

"I'm sorry?" Carter asked.

"Only half of the map is here. Parg, Kadatheron, Inquanok, Oriab, Sona-Nyl, half of Lomar, and even Ilek-Vad aren't on here. Don't you have a fuller map?"

Carter, with furrowed brows, looked half concerned and half confused, as if he didn't understand the question at all or thought the question was thoroughly unreasonable. To her shock, Carter finally said "Clair, those places don't exist anymore."

She had no idea what to say and no idea what to think. Half of all the world not existing sounded like utter madness to her and she thought that either she misheard Carter or he was joking with her. "That's not true! How can that be true? I've met people from these places before, like Parg."

"Just because the people still exist, doesn't mean that…"Carter paused. He looked sidelong in a contemplative gesture. Then he said, as if questioning it himself "Ulthar never knew."

"Kn…knew what?"

"A few centuries ago, back when I was the king of Ilek-Vad, there was a, uh, conflict—lets just say—or a world war of sorts. In short, it resulted in the destruction of several regions and cities…"

"Wouldn't the land masses still appear on the map though? The Twilight Region is completely gone for instance. What kind of war destroys an entire continent?"

He closed his eyes and swallowed, seeming to restrain a very bad memory. "A kind of war I hope neither of us sees again. Just know that those places no longer exist. You should be able to get to Leng, thought, even if everything between there and the Cerenarian Sea is gone. I'll send a telegram to King Kuranes, and see if he can buy you a voyage on an Aether Yacht. You should be able to cross the void where Inganok was on one of those."

"I don't think I understand." Clair said, curling up the map. She still had difficulty believing that half of her world had simply vanished.

"What's not to understand? When you leave here, just go West to Celephaïs and go to a man named Athib who lives in Shi-Gho Harbor. By then, I should be able to call Kuranes to buy that Aether Yacht and hire Athib to captain it. He should be able to take you straight to Leng. Oh! I almost forgot. Come, let's go back upstairs." Carter vanished into the box jungle again and quickly scampered up the stairs with Clair keeping up.

Once they were in the living room, Carter found a small glass case huddled against the darkest corner and cracked it open. Gazing within at his side, Clair saw several small stones carved in the shape of warped stars. It was clear to her that these were Elder Signs, and ones much more authentic than the one drawn on the side of that old cup she lost in the Underworld.

"I don't know if they'll work," Carter warned. "but it's better than nothing. They might be able to protect you from anything living in Leng. Please, take these with you make sure they're close at hand."

"Will they work against Nyarlathotep?" Clair asked already knowing the answer.

Carter sighed, shaking his head. "No. The _R'lyeh Text_ and such tomes say it does but it really doesn't . Nyarlathotep isn't like other gods. He's a being that innately knows the very science behind fear and pain, thus he is ultimately immune to it."

"Figures." She grabbed one of the star stones, clutched it in her fist and held it close to her. "If there is anything, any god, helping us now, may they grand these Elder Signs power." She prayed. She looked up at Carter, sliding the star stone in one of the chest pockets in her new coat. "Anything else I need to have?"

"Just enough food and water to last the trip. I've got a few packs of dehydrated biscuits and about four or five good sized canteens. I advise that you be very conservative with these rations, but you'll be able to buy more food at Celephaïs and, of coarse, mooch off of Athib during your voyage." He dug into his back pocket, extracting a wallet and then a few silvery dollar bills from therein. He handed the folded up money to Clair who took it without question. "This is Celephaian money. Use it buy anything you need while you're there." Carter paused, running through his mental checklist. "Well…that's everything. Just pack your own stuff and…"

"I'll leave." Clair finished.

"Been nice having you here, Clair. I think I'm gonna miss you." Carter patted the girl on the shoulder. "I have a feeling that by the time your story ends, it'll be more legendary than anything I've ever done."

"Thank you. Thank you for everything." Clair bowed. "I hate to think about what would have happened to me if you had never showed up. You're a blessing Carter."

"I just wish I could have saved Willow."

"I'm over it. I still love him, and I'm never going to forget him, but I can't let his passing stop me. I'll reach Kadath and face Nyarlathotep like a warrior. For him." Clair smiled. "I've survived and I will continue to survive."

"That's the spirit!"

There were no more words between them that evening. Clair grabbed her new satchel, the map, her food rations, and the glock and reluctantly walked out the door and into the bright and grassy hills of Ooth-Nargai and the world beyond that awaited her coming, leaving behind yet another chapter of her quest. There was little more interaction. Before she slipped out the threshold from Carter's home, she gave her aged host a light nod and a small smile, unable to say a proper good-bye. She hated to leave the man behind. He was a living testament of human decency in a world reined by malice and confusion. He was one of the few figures in her life who inflicted a positive impact on her, second only to Willow…

…and Willow. She didn't want to look directly at the grave for fear of loosing her half-faked composure and breaking down all over again, but not giving Willow a final look felt like an insult to his memory. She passed the grave, the leaning flowers over his body gently brushing Clair's leg, as if they were Willow's own playful paws patting her one final time. She looked down and felt another sob well in her throat, so she looked up again, eyeing the distant mountain range that bordered Celephaïs with Mount Aran serving as a snow-capped beacon.

She descended the hill, bound for Kadath and leaving behind the ancient hero Randolph Carter…

…leaving behind Willow, lying in the ground.

 


	15. The Edge

Earth scorched and laden with decay,  
Left behind and buried the final day.  
—Unknown

 

 

  
The days waxed and waned, shifting between the light of the sun and the light of the moon as Clair travelled over rolling green hills capped with grand and twisted oaks that looming over crystalline ponds, who's waters ruffled in the East-borne winds. Standing here and there, amid the valleys of the grassy hills or half submerged in the depths of the accompanying rivers, were a number of weathered granite monoliths carved with the characters of a long dead alphabet. They were very numerous, appearing near or on almost every hill or on the bank of every river or pond; moss covered things that leaned over the fluttering grasses and cattails that hugged their cracked bases. She thought for a time if these monuments were once part of an ancient colony, perhaps one that predated Celephaïs or the occupation of Ooth-Nargai. They piqued her curiosity (which felt good to her, given that it was a sign that she was regaining her fascination of the world after Willow's death), but when she saw one particular stone— standing perfectly erect and polished upon a man-made mound—she felt compelled to investigate it.

After trudging up the mound, and thus gaining sight of the clouded horizon where Mount Aran towered, she approached the stone and noticed that it stood twice as tall as herself. On one perfectly flat and multi-hued surface was carved an image. A very disturbing image. It depicted an ambiguous city, nestled between a lone and broad mountain and a disturbed ocean that seemed to spill over the edge of existence like a titanic and endless waterfall. Overhead, where a sky would ordinarily be, was a massive and impossibly complex being that might have been Azathoth or one of the Other Gods. As her eye followed the curving, shifting, angling, and contradicting lines of the beast, her stomach lurched and upturned in disgust. She remembered the form clearly from her dreams, but was convinced that the daemon was not Azathoth or Nyarlathotep; similar, yet neither. There were runes on the stone also. Some were unidentifiable—being a language she had never seen—and some were more familiar, yet still unreadable. Forgetting the ancient writing, she resolved to examine the other faces and found another image, less convoluted yet more disturbing than the other.

It depicted the vast globe of the world, caught within the grasp of a knot of sinuous members tipped with talons and claws that dug into the curved surface like knives. The finer details revealed familiar continents like Lomar and her own Skai Region being shattered and peeled away like the skin off a fruit. But what was most disturbing was the image that hung directly above the violated world. The tentacles congregated and merged into a twisting pillar that trailed into the peak of an upside down mountain who's outline and dark hues were unmistakably that of Kadath.

What to make of these depictions, Clair had no clue, but they were unsettling none the less. The unblemished surfaces of the stone showed that it was fairly recent, possibly no more than a few decades old. The daemons and apocalyptic scenes depicted could possibly to be nothing more than the creation of a diseased mind, but Clair knew better than to assume that. If a man visualizing and carving an effigy of an outer daemon made him mad, would Clair herself be mad as well for dreaming of and following the whims of what is possibly the same daemon?

Clair descended the hill again and continued forth, having grown tired of looking at the odd stone. As far as Clair was concerned, it was just another curiosity on the coarse of her journey.

Another hour or so passed before Clair was stopped in her tracks again. All along she had kept close track of the sun as it slid through the cloudless sky. She kept close watch of its position and remembered the approximate time of the day it represented, so she knew something was very wrong when the Eastern horizon seemed to inexplicably go dark, as if it were in the dead of night, even if the sun hung at the very apex of the sky in the twelve-o-clock position. The blue sky faded into a deep and unsettling darkness that remained completely untouched by the sunlight. All along the East, utter blackness bordered the horizon, devoid of anything bright or visible yet radiating a sense of otherworldliness she hadn't felt since her genesis dream.

Slowly and cautiously approaching, she crested a large hill that stood between her and the East. She climbed one of the weathered monoliths at the hill's crown and peered where the Eastern horizon would be. The hills rolled on for what seemed to be four or five kilometers, but abruptly came to an end at the wall of darkness that still pulsed with that implacable aura. Unlike the sky, the ground did not fade into the darkness but came to a clearly defined edge, where windswept grass bordered on a black void.

She descended the hill and wove her way in between the hills and creeks for hours until she came within mere feet of the black shroud. Everything felt the same—the warm wind, the waxy grass on her ankles, the average pull of gravity—but the dreadful aura became so strong it was as if she was in the very presence of some tangible yet invisible entity. The sunlight still cast an extended shadow of herself, stretching towards the East, but was decapitated by the immense wall of nothingness that extended straight towards the sky and infinitely towards her left and her right. She took a few more steps closer until her toes were flush with the edge of the ground, lightly touching the infinite void. It was like a massive cliff, but overlooking the very edge of existence rather than an ocean gulf or a canyon. She looked down and saw nothing beneath the edge. She looked up, where the sky met the wavering border of the void, and saw nothing. She looked forward and wondered—with a surprisingly nonexistent amount of fear—what the infinite void that lied before her was like underneath the facade of darkness.

She remembered the new map that Carter gave her and quickly unfurled it from her satchel. To the East of Ooth-Nargai, where she currently stood, there was nothing but blank, yellowed paper where, on her older map, the Twilight Sea and the Kingdom of Ilek-Vad would have been. She looked up and at the void, knowing that, years ago, the coast of a sparkling ocean overlooked by the glass towers of Ilek-Vad would have lied here.

Carter wasn't exaggerating. Not only was Ilek-Vad gone, but it's own landmass and ocean was also effaced from existence as if it were merely charcoal on canvas. How sad it was to think that such a wonderful and beautiful land was gone forever and she would never be able to behold it's heavenly splendor. Even if she's met the elderly and dethroned king of said land, Ilek-Vad was forever lost to herself and the rest of existence. She's read the basic text of the Priest Atal as well as the accounts of Carter's travels when she was a child, and was thus filled with the haunting beauty of a city that would never die but only to see that the deathless city has passed into oblivion.

What force could have done this? Who or what would be so heinous as to eradicate a world of blissful serenity? What could be so powerful as to even accomplish such a grim feat?

Nyarlathotep, Clair thought, or that twisted thing depicted on that recent monolith. The continents peeling away under that monster's claws made sense now. What that beast was Clair couldn't definitively tell, but if the image held any truth then it was clear that it had something to do with the destruction of Ilek-Vad, Parg, Inquanok, Lomar, and other distant regions. It nearly appalled her to think that the denizens of Ulthar—or at the very least, herself only—had remained oblivious to the disappearance of these legendary corners of the globe.

She took another glance at the map. In between the Northern coast of the Cerenarian and the mountains that surround Leng once stood the city of Inganok. Now, according to this map, Inganok was gone, presumably leaving another expanse of void between the sane world and the nightmare land of the Cold Waste.

What would it be like to dive into that void?

She stole another glance at the void. Despite the even darkness, she thought she could faintly sense—not just see—formless things floating and flopping about like jellyfish in water. It was somewhat disturbing to imagine the true forms of those creatures, but far from terrifying. How horrifying can they be compared to that titanic lich daemon—the black butterfly, tentacled anthropoid—that she saw many days ago? That thing still haunted her, day and night. She knew that the things in the void could easily pluck her from the edge and painfully kill her, yet still she stood there, mesmerized by a dark and unknown world. She fancied she was almost fearless, but maybe that meant she was insane. She didn't feel insane, but maybe true lunatics don't feel insane either. Carter didn't seem to think she was insane but maybe that meant he was insane too.

Without fully realizing it, she was already walking away from the edge of existence, climbing over the hills that rolled towards Mount Aran.

What happened during that war? What was the lich daemon that stuck to the inside of Clair's mind? Why, she asked herself once again, would Nyarlathotep summon her to Kadath?

Was she really insane, plagued by illusions as well as nightmares?

So many questions. Maybe when she reaches Kadath, all will be revealed.


	16. In a Dream…

She felt small next to the immense, sky reaching bulk of Mount Aran. Every so often Clair would throw back her head and steal a glance of the snow laden peak as it vanished and reappeared within wispy clouds. Large, flying animals, most likely condors, could be seen gliding and darting around the clouds and circling the peak. Aran—though being the largest in Ooth-Nargai—was not the only mountain to be seen. All around her stood green and white mounts like silent, meditating giants indifferent to her labored trek across the crag-lands beyond the Tanarian Hills. In every direction save for the one from which she came, the mountains surrounded her, enclosing her in a massive, earthy arena. The sun had recently vanished behind the Westernmost edge of the range, casting a cold shadow over the valley. Between the frequent limestone boulders and enormous plates of stony ground grew strange and iridescent flowers that were unlike any Clair had seen before. Almost all of them were the same height, being three feet high, and were adorned with curling, whip-like petals that made them look more like polyps than any proper plant. When the sun set and the mountains' shadow was thrown over them, the flowers bowed and shriveled in perfect unison. They way they moved made Clair think of them as animals. They weren't dangerous for she had already passed thousands of them—even waded through small fields of the weird flowers—and not one of them reacted to her presence.

A burst of wind swept down the slopes of Mount Aran, carrying the chills of its frozen crown. She pulled the jacket out of the strappings on her satchel and slipped it over her arms. She caught the pungent aroma that wafted off the parka's leather again and found herself wondering what it reminded her of. It was exotic, that much was true, but it brought to mind several familiar things including blueberries. The nectar didn't even smell like blueberries yet it made her crave blueberries. It also made her crave cinnamon. She brought her arm up to her nose and took a careful sniff of her sleeve. Yes, she wanted cinnamon and blueberries. What else the odor reminder her of was unclear, being just vague impressions.

She lost interest in her sweet smelling parka (she didn't think that was weird) and continued idly forward, ignoring her surroundings until she came across a curiously shaped hill pressed against a layered cliff face. It wasn't entirely round, but shaped more like a crude pyramid that was flattened at the top. It was draped entirely in vegetation of all sorts, including grass, vines, shrubs, and a few twisted pines that clung to its side. She took a deeper look at the hill and noticed a few shallow indentations in the nearest side, knowing that those indentations were actually overgrown windows. The hill was actually the ruins of a lone and ancient building. As she got closer she noticed a hunched shape sitting on the roof and figured it to be a man. He was robed in a way that obscured his features and was sitting cross legged between a couple of rose bushes. What was odd was that the man appeared to be partially covered in vines as if he had been sitting there for a year.

"Pardon me, sir!" Clair called out. "Can you tell me if I'm nearing Celephaïs?"

The man didn't stir. Did nothing to acknowledge Clair's presence. She came closer to the building and noticed that the walls were slanted just enough to allow her to climb it.

"Hello?" She called again. Still nothing. She approached the wall and began climbing, using it's dying bushes and cracked bricks for leverage. She stepped foot on the roof and wadded through it's thick carpeting of grass before coming within a few feet of the man. He still didn't move, but the reason became clear when Clair saw the brown and withered hand that limply hung from the thing's rotting sleeve. She moved around to see the hood covered face, or what was left of it. Dried lips forever peeled back revealed the corpse's grin and blackened pupils leered at her from behind shriveled eyelids, set within deep sockets. Along the sunken cheeks and forehead, flakes of dead flesh hung by mere threads, partially revealing the skull beneath. Around a thin neck hung a tarnished metal amulet etched with the "leaf" variant Elder Sign on one side and the grisly image of a half-naked man nailed to a crucifix on the other. In one twisted claw the corpse held the remnants of a scroll.

Clair didn't know why she decided to swipe the scroll from the dead man, but it didn't bother her anyhow. She unfurled the scroll, hearing the paper snap and crumble like autumn leaves in her delicate grasp and watched the tiny fragments fall to the ground. Not much survived, but what did was still legible. Surprisingly, it was also penned in English. The top, written in stylized letters, read The Fourth Era Verses of The Black Meadows, followed by scrawled stanzas of poetry. None of it made any sense—but then again, she supposed it wasn't supposed to if read out of context—but one series of couplets stood out to her:

" _We ask if we brought this upon our own lives  
With our debauchery, fornicating, and lies._

_"They see us but on they still walk.  
We pray but they don't hear us talk._

_"Earth scorched and laden with decay,  
Left behind and buried the final day._

_"Blown into dust, ne'er to be remembered.  
The God we knew is now dismembered."_

She didn't know why she became interested in this. Perhaps the grim and brooding tone fitted its place in the grasp of a corpse, and she found that aspect sort of quaint. Without thinking about it, she put the disintegrating scroll in her satchel and forgot about it.

As she stood and turned to head out, Clair accidentally nudged the corpse, toppling it over and freeing it from the tangle of ivy that ensnared it. With a grotesque sound like the snapping of wet twigs, the corpse hit the rocks behind it and fell to pieces as easily as the scroll it held. It's skull fell free from its neck and rolled across the grassy roof in imitation of a rotting ball. Like looking into the unknown pits of oblivion past the world's edge, Clair remained undisturbed by the mangled heap of flesh and bone sprawled on the ground. Just another thing left diminished by the titanic lich-daemon.

She climbed off the building and continued toward Celephaïs. Within time, the city's distant spires and domes briefly came into view over a small forest as she crested and descended another hill. She didn't stop to observe, but she thought she saw numerous shapes hovering over the city like flies. Whatever they were they looked mechanical, which made her considerably more curious about Celephaïs. Though she didn't bother thinking about it too much. Within another day or so she would know.

She entered the vividly colored forest that began at the base slopes of Mount Aran, diving into the refreshing shade beneath the thousands of oddly shaped gingko tree fronds. It was like being in the Enchanted Wood again, but much less ominous and with no Zoogs. Instead there was the perpetual song of strange and beautifully plumed birds that hopped and fluttered from branch to branch. Every time a breeze would slip past the trees, a cascade of gently gliding leaves would fall from above in a forest wide cascade of yellows, greens, and reds. The leaves would often get caught in her hair or her satchel, yet she cared little. She occupied herself by nibbling on one of the biscuits Carter gave her and taking an occasional swig from one of her four canteens.

Eventually she caught the faint scent of sea salt—recognized from her stay on the other side of the Cerenarian—and soon after saw the misty ocean horizon between the trees. Not long after she saw the the building tops of Celephaïs standing aside the the blue ocean waters, dotted with numerous sailing ships of varying sizes and shapes. Similarly, the air was also dotted with numerous flying vessels and balloon-like contraptions that she would late come to know as "zeppelins". Some were no larger than a house—those being the simpler ones composed of just a simple helium filled envelope and carriage-sized cabin—and others were so large they seemed wider than the River Skai. Among the zeppelins drifted several flying galleys, their distinctive shapes and colors identifying to their home harbors.

The nearest gate, set between two towers of blue metal and white stone, was past a vaulted bridge above the glass-clear river of Naraxa, flowing past the bottom of the hill on which Clair stood. Between her and the river was a vast decline interrupted by nothing but thousands of flowers hued in every color on the spectrum, swaying in a tranquil breeze cast by the Cerenarian Sea. Easily, this city was far more beautiful than Thran and better yet, she saw no intimidating guards standing at the gates, so she assumed she didn't have to regale "three dreams beyond belief" again.

She descended the hill, taking care not to trample any of the surreally enchanting flowers. She crossed the bridge and took her time admiring the jeweled, arabesque arches suspended above. She took prolonged glances once or twice at the river of bubbling liquid glass below, clearly seeing the ruby-hued fish and fractal-like anemones beneath. Between the two blue-and-white guardian towers was suspended a final and grander arch, carved with twin depictions of regal looking beings she took be either kings or gods. Between these carvings was etched the words " _He reins there still, and will reign happily forever…_ "

Past the towers stretched a winding, cobblestone avenue lined on both sides with flashy edifices, capped with domes studded with shimmering jewels as numerous as the stars and thin, needle-pointed spires flying the banners of King Kuranes. Though the streets weren't crowded, the people that walked them were far from subtle. Unlike Ultharians, the majority of Celephians were clad in very colorful, flamboyant, and wholesome garments that reflected their status in this city's hierarchy. Most were conservative, but a noticeable few were dressed in an unreasonably scanty way. In addition, the seemingly unorganized color scheme and plethora of wonderfully yet wildly decorated buildings suggested that Celephaïs' people were an eccentric bunch. What to think of that, Clair had no clue but hardly cared at the moment.

Clair proceeded forward, weaving her way past the oddly clad masses, who seemed surprisingly indifferent to the obvious Ultharian visitor. Once she exited the rural sector (or at least that's what she assumed it was), she found herself walking a much broader road flanked by vaulted cathedrals and pyramidal structures mingled with quaint shops. The pedestrians were quickly replaced by rattling and purring automobiles, shining twin beams of light that cut through the setting twilight. Lights flicked on and off across the city. Lamps and colors shone through the myriad of tiny windows set in the archaic towers that seemed to grow taller and taller as she passed. Lengthened shadows overlaid the streets and their indifferent walkers, cast by the roaring, humming, cigar shaped machines that slowly floated above. At one point, Clair stopped in mid stride to gaze at a passing zeppelin that was suspended directly above. It's many spinning propellers sounded an omnipresent thrum and its metal bulk eclipsed the pink and auburn sky.

There were statues, too, and many other gilded monuments mounted above the domes of temples and in the gardens of condominiums. Some paying homage to the hoary Kuranes, who was most often depicted standing robust and armed with his sword and scepter. Gods were depicted as well, apparently held in high reverence. Many were strange and very off-putting, but some were recognizable (albeit equally off-putting) including the grey and feral Nodens and the many breasted Bast. Clair had forgotten about them though. Just ugly and/or imaginary idols that she used to worship was all she saw.

As the night began to end its movement across the sky, Clair couldn't help but think how oppressive this place was. It was beautiful of course, but in the same way as a volcano. Frothing seas of magma are a splendid sight, but the hellish heat and deadly gases would probably force one to consider leaving. Celephaïs was huge and therefore it would seem more like a labyrinth-like prison if caught in the wrong place. There was simply too much and all of it was so densely packed it was like being in a broom closet with several barrels of jewels and hundred-year-old rum. In Ulthar there was little more than cats, cottages, and cornfields. Here, there were towers, cathedrals, spires, bridges, statues, flags, automobiles, queer folk, ocean, flying ship, flying balloon, flying horses, guy selling that, guy selling this, prostitutes over there, lights lights lights, noise, people, more flying things, more noise, more fucking people.

Once the fancy has passed, Clair found that she really did not like the big city.

The sounds of crashing ocean waves and seagulls let her know that she was near the coast and incidentally near the docks, although, instead of finding Athib, she decided to find the nearest inn considering it was almost nightfall. It wasn't until this resolve that she really noticed that she had gone almost fifteen hours without sleep. It was a miracle she could even hold her eyelids open at all.

After asking an officer for directions, she was directed to a cheap "motel" (that's what the man called this supposed inn) less than a mile away from Shi-Gho Harbor.

The place wasn't isolated at all, but as soon as she turned her back to the spires of Celephaïs and faced the foaming and crashing waves of the seas, she felt that the clutter and noise of the city was lightyears away. It may have been some kind of illusion or trick, but the the constant purring of zeppelin engines and chatter of street goers was completely inaudible and the flood of light pollution couldn't have been seen at all. There wasn't even anyone there to annoy her. She was alone. There was only the humming ocean and the occasional squawking of gulls. The only lights to be seen were the final and dying rays of the setting sun, the stars, and the paper festivity lamps hanging from the awnings of the humble, two-floor building that was the inn (or motel) that Clair planned on sleeping at.

There she stood, Immobilized by some inexplicable bliss that had stricken her. She sat down on a bench on the side of the narrow road that was nearly flush with the top of a rocky slope that descended to a beach below, and gazed out at the thin red line of sunlight on the distant, ocean horizon. Her feet carelessly dangled over the rocks of that hill and the salted breeze whipped her hair. The sky was alight with stars, left to sparkle freely in the total absence of the moon. She stretched herself out on the bench, laying her head back, stargazing for untold hours and thinking about almost nothing. Nyarlathotep, Kadath, the Lich-Daemon, and Willow's ever haunting ghost all seemed so distant as she immersed herself and became lost in the serene night.


	17. Shi-Gho Harbor

_Painless steps from man to beast._  
_Indulge, my child, in lawless feasts._  
_—Unknown_

 

 

The decapitated cadaver of a ghoul laid sprawled at Clair's feet. The blood that spilled from the heinous creature's open neck pooled around her bare feet and reeked in a way that pleased her. In one blood covered hand she held the hunting knife she had used to behead the creature; the same knife that this fucking mongrel had used to slay Willow. In the other hand—equally soaked—she carried the slack jawed head of the ghoul, her slick, crimson fingers viciously digging into the scarce remains of it's scalp. She closed her eyes, smiled, and breathed in the foul air, contaminated with the stench of blood and dying excretions.

Justice. Pure justice executed in ecstasy.

She brought the head up to chest level and gazed into Pickman's lightless, red irises. Blood still slowly flowed from his jaws, eyes, and shredded stump of his neck. After mentally rewinding the events of her kill and enjoying the feel again and again and again, she threw the skull across the dusty ground before her and watched it hit and roll with a satisfying series of thumps.

Further beyond, set against the bloody disk of the sun, she saw a towering pillar, so tall that it barely touched the edge of the black atmosphere. It had wings. Massive wings that were each miles wide and resembled the black and tattered wings of a burned butterfly. It had tentacles too, arranged around the mid-point circumference of the crooked structure like a vast, undulating skirt. There were arms; crooked arthropod limbs folded over it's breast in the position of a dead man. There were spikes and scales and hair. The tower stood on clawed feet instead of a set base.

The face—the twisted, grimacing face of a rotting human—leered at Clair over hundreds of miles with it's wide, searchlight eyes.

She felt a hand gently wrap around her throat. She didn't flinch, but broadened her smile, keeping her eyes on the Lich-Daemon before her. The warm atmosphere of a head brushed her shoulder, and she didn't have to look to know it was the faceless head of Nyarlathotep. She felt his ominous breath against her ear as he whispered a cryptic couplet:

 _"The grey face of extinction wanes true,_  
_To dead heavens, carnage calls for you."_

Her head turned to meet the nonexistent eyes of her visitor, but to no surprise, she found that she was alone.

All around her brooded the skeletal husks of a city, adorned with human skulls and the fluttering banners of death: black flags embellished with horned pentagrams drawn in human blood.

The pool radiating from the ghoul's corpse spread until Clair was standing in a reflective puddle of blood. She looked down at the viscous mirror and saw herself. She giggled. The young girl with the emerald eyes and black hair was gone. It her place stood a figure of fractured bone and tattered, blood drenched flesh, draped in the scant and filthy remnants of clothing. Even her eyes were changed; still the same vivid, green color, but now rimmed with the deep red of anger and insanity. She looked as if she was violently butchered and ripped to shreds and then hastily put back together to form the perfect apparition of nightmares.

She was violated. Desecrated. Abused. Destroyed. Revived. Replenished. Rebuilt. Alive at last.

Nyarlathotep's omnipotent voice whispered "Welcome home…"

Clair awoke gasping and drenched in cold sweat. The heart was beating so fast she was afraid it would burst. She sat up and frantically looked around for the dead Pickman, but only found a curious gull pecking at the street not far from the bench where she sat. The apocalyptic landscape and the towering Lich-Daemon were gone, replaced by the humble motel and the mid-morning ocean. Nyarlathotep's presence was nowhere to be felt. She pressed and felt at random places on her body to make sure she was still alive and whole. She was alright and so was the world around her.

The gull squawked before flying past Clair and into the the vicinity of the ocean. She took a quick look at the the sun—half hidden behind the spires of Celephaïs—and saw that it was morning. She had spent the night sleeping outside, which was somewhat unsettling considering how vulnerable she was. She skimmed her satchel and found everything, including her money and food rations, still in their places. The glock too was still in its place at her right hip. As far she could tell she wasn't robbed or harmed in any way. Maybe Celephaïs wasn't such a seedy place…or maybe she was just lucky. Now, that didn't matter; she had to find Shi-Gho Harbor. She stood, stretched, ate a small biscuit, and continue down the ocean edge of Celephaïs.

She walked along the shore-side avenue for a while before coming across a very small and very dingy set of docks across a stretch of low dunes. Tied to these docks were a couple of small barges and a green-and-white, four-masted ship (along the bow's side was painted "The Furtive Siren"), lazily bobbing up and down in the waves. Between her and the harbor was a barely noticeable wooden sign etched with faded letters that read "SHI-GHO HARBOR—CAPTAIN IN CHARGE: LORD ATHIB LE'NESHI". The only building to be seen was a little, square structure that was maybe a few feet wider than an outhouse. It sat almost at the very edge of the foaming water and leaned just enough as to suggest that it was either abandoned or poorly maintained. Other than that, there was nothing else to mark this place as a legal harbor.

Ignoring the possibility that it was uninhabited, she approached the cube cabin and rang the little bell bolted to the door. The response she received was a loud but muffled shout from somewhere inside. She couldn't tell what the occupant said, but assumed it meant he would answer. A few minutes later, the door swung outwards, almost knocking Clair in the face, and a young man pocked his head out through the threshold, giving Clair an inquisitive and somewhat jaded-looking stare. If it wasn't for the mop of unkept, blonde hair, the layer of grime on his cheeks, and the noxious smelling, greasy sweater he wore, the man would have been quite handsome.

"The hell you want, girl? We're closed." He chided.

"I'm looking for someone named Athib. Do you know him? I was told he owns this harbor." She jerked a thumb at the sloppy sign sitting in the dunes.

"Athib? He's my grandpa. He's dead. Been dead for almost twenty years."

"Then are you in charge?"

"Yeah, I am. And I already told you we're closed, so beat it kid." He began closing the door, but Clair grabbed hold of the outside handle and jerked it free of the man's grasp, leaving him astonished.

"If I'm not mistaking," she began in a very mater-of-fact tone. "You should have received word from the King of my arrival, Mr…"

"Tuuk." He growled, beaming hatred at the girl.

"Mr. Tuuk, I'm Clair of Ulthar. Has Kuranes pre-paid for an Aether Yacht voyage to Leng? Told you to expect me, too?" Clair didn't bother holding back her bad attitude.

"You talk pretty fucking big for someone who probably hasn't bled yet."

"Answer the question." She returned cooly.

Tuuk scowled. "Yeah, I was told you were coming. Frankly, thought, I thought you would get lost and starve to death in the Tanarians. I wasn't really expecting you."

Clair fought the urge to kick Tuuk right in his loins. Instead she turned and indicated the green-and-white vessel. "Is that it?"

"It? The boat we'll be taking to Leng? That's her, alright." He glanced around the edge of the door, giving the ship a half-grin. "She's called _The Furtive Siren_. My pa bought her with his life's savings. She was state of the art back then."

Clair nodded, feigning interest. "How long till we set sail?"

"A few hours. I got to call a couple of my ship mates, get clearance to enter interregional waters, and get her fueled up first."

"Fuel?"

Tuuk's brow furrowed. "Yes fuel."

"It's got sails."

"Did you forget that it's an Aether Yacht? There's no wind where we'll be a-sailing, kid."

Clair didn't respond, although in hindsight that should have been an obvious assumption.

He pointed to _The Furtive Siren_. "You can wait on the deck for awhile if you like. I reckon it will about high noon at the very least when we hit the water."

"We will be heading straight for Leng, right?"

Tuuk looked at her with a subtle mixture of contempt and fear. He then looked past the dock at the horizon, where Leng waited. "Directly to Leng, yes."

Clair dreaded hearing that almost as much as Tuuk did. "Good." She said.

"Can I ask you something?"

Clair looked at him, almost knowing what he was going to ask, and gave a single nod.

"Why the fuck are you going to Leng?"

Clair frowned, looking away from her host. "Do you believe in the gods?"

"What does that have to do with anything?"

"They called me." She curtly replied.

His eyes narrowed. "Really?"

"Really. It's none of your business, though. I know your going to flee the moment you drop me off."

"Girl, It's Leng. Who the hell wouldn't?"

"I would if I had the choice."


	18. The Last You'll See of Sane Land

A cask filled with bitter wine,  
Black with blood, taking no shine.  
—Unknown

 

 

As the _The Furtive Siren_ drifted away from the cluster of docks that could barely pass as a harbor, Clair leaned over the stern railing watching the spires and floating masses of Celephaïs gradually shrink away. She couldn't help but think if that noisy, flamboyant city would be the last she would ever see of a sane world. She considered the possibility that the misty gardens and their grandiose sequoias would be the last bit of living flora she would ever behold. Thran, Celephaïs, the luminescent Enchanted Wood, the rolling Tanarians, the wide and incomprehensibly open fields of the Skai Region, the crystalline Skai River and the shoals of glowing koi—and of coarse, humble Ulthar, her home—would all become distant and dream-like memories as she inevitably walks the dead and freezing Plateau of Leng. She even feared that the endless blue sky, the wholesome fluffs of white clouds, the life-giving sol, and the dome of a million distant, winking stars would become nothing more than forgotten wonders, forever out of her reach. What awaited her arrival in Leng and Unknown Kadath was a thought that made her stomach twist and force fearful bile into the back of her throat. Satyrs, for one thing, was something she desperately didn't want to come across. She heard about them from her childhood stories, and their most prominent characteristic was their vicious and unrelenting perversions. She was glad she had weapons, but while she had only sixty bullets and a blood-tarnished knife, the Lengians will surely number in the hundreds, if not thousands. She didn't like that ratio.

But of course, Nyarlathotep could provide some sort of supernatural or divine protection like he apparently intended to before, but that would only mean Clair will live to meet something far more horrible and infinitely more powerful. But the fear of Satyrs or of the Crawling Chaos paled compared to the ever clawing question of if she would return home one day, unharmed and sane.

She wanted to see her mother and father again, and Atal and her lovely neighbors. Willow was gone, but Ulthar still existed and that fact alone was the only thing that kept her even marginally hopeful. She ached to see again those thatched hovels, the cobblestone streets kept by cats, and the sunlight over the vast cornfields.

As Celephaïs dwindled into a thin, black line between the sky and the ocean, she bowed and rested her forehead in her arms, crossed on the railing. She closed her eyes, and quietly brooded over the mental photographs (she wondered where the hell that word came from) of her home, her parents, and Willow.

"You gonna go inside anytime soon or what?" She heard Tuuk inquire.

She didn't look up to acknowledge her visitor. "Not right now."

"You need to talk?"

"You wouldn't care."

She could almost sense his playful grin. "You're right. I don't give a fuck. Which is exactly why I decided to come up here instead of getting hammered."

Clair raised her head just enough to get a partial view of her environment. Celephaïs was still barely visible, but it was rendered unnoticeable by the endless blue of the Cerenarian, disturbed only by the churning trail _The Furtive Siren_ left in it's wake. She could feel the warm breeze tug her hair and hear the frequent snapping of the sails as they fluttered in the wind, accompanied by the sound of the water splashing and scraping against the hull. "I just want to be alone."

"I get it. You're scared. I'm scared too, going to Leng and all." Tuuk paused, then offered "If your nerves get too frayed, I've got some pot down in the cargo hold. Don't hesitate to ask for any."

Clair turned and gave the captain a half-glance. "What? You're offering me pots? For my nerves?"

"Of course. We're in interregional waters. It's legal." Tuuk seemed to contemplate for a moment before saying "Oh! I get it. You think I mean kitchen pots. No, I mean weed."

"Medicinal weed?"

He shrugged. "Yeah, kinda. I got some hard Jamaican Spice. That's good for stress."

"I've never heard of…uh…Jam-akan? What is that?"

"It's a place a from…" he threw a thumb over his shoulder, indicating nothing. "Some place."

"You're not making any sense."

"Do I have too?" His palms went up in a shrug.

She conceded with a sigh. "Fine. I'll have some."

Before Clair knew it, she was sitting with Tuuk and his two crew mates (one tattooed Pargian with braids and a very pale woman with metal piercings in her lower lip) around a wooden table that constantly shifted with the rocking of the ship. Bolted to the center of it was a glass hookah, stemming four hoses; one for each sailor, including Clair. The air was thick with the reek of marijuana smoke and gin.

"…if you seen the shit past those Pillars man, just…it's epic. I'll say that much." Tuuk regaled. After taking another puff from the hookah, white smoke billowed out of his lips, comically making him look like a human dragon.

The Pargian, whose name was Johnny, took a hard gulp of his gin before saying "Fool, there ain't nothing beyond those Pillars but the end of the mother fucking world! Your ass would have died!"

"Says who?"

"Says the dead man who vanished over the edge looking for that Cathuria, or whatever the fuck they called it."

"You mean the White Ship story?" The woman, Dahlia, interrupted.

"Bullshit!" Tuuk exclaimed. "That can't happen. The world is fucking round. There are no edges!"

"We're heading to the edge of the world right now." Clair boldly stated. If she was sober, she would never have considered contributing to this pointless argument, but her judgment was obscured by the high. She had already taken several hits by now, enjoying the light headed feel the weed gave her. Her better half was screaming for her to stop, but since she was on a death-journey to Kadath, getting a little buzz (possibly illegally) wasn't even remotely a problem. If fact, her woes were very heavily clouded, not only by the weed but by the infectious antics of her three shipmates.

Clair took a draw from the hookah and held in the smoke before letting it out, asking "Did you seriously go past the the Basalt Pillars of the West?"

"Yes. I did."

Johnny looked between the two of them, mockingly shaking his head. Dahlia started giggling.

"What was it like? Does Cathuria actually exist?" Clair asked.

"I don't know if Cathuria exist or not—I didn't see it—but the Beyond wasn't that bad." Tuuk's eyes were starting to turn pink, prompting Clair to wonder if the same was happening to her. "There are some weird critters over there, though."

"Like those flying polyps you told us about?" Dahlia spited.

"They have a name!"

"What?" Clair asked, rubbing her drooping eyes. She was starting to get hungry.

"Uh…I forgot. Okay, let's forget about pillars and polyps for right now and let's talk about our guest of honor." Tuuk waved a hand at the Ultharian, who didn't seem to notice.

Clair shook her head, frowning. "No." She said, unable to think of anything else to say.

"Why go to Leng?" Johnny asked.

"That's my business. Let's change the subject."

"Are your parents okay with you going this far?" Dahlia asked.

"No, they aren't. But I didn't have a choice in this and neither did they. Oh, by the way, Johnny, what was Parg like? Before it vanished?" She didn't really care. She just wanted to talk about something else.

"It was nice. A lot nicer than Mnar. There were a lot of fruits that grew exclusively in Parg, though. I'm never gonna be able to taste that shit again…and that sucks. Ever heard of a Zuchuio bean?"

Clair shook her head.

"I've had one before." Tuuk interrupted. "Tasted like ass." Clair noticed that he had been fidgeting with a piece of yarn.

Johnny narrowed his eyes at the captain. "How you know what ass taste like?"

"Dude, I've practically lived in the red light district once." Tuuk chuckled. "Those bitches bankrupted me."

"Tuuk, show some decency." Dahlia pointed at Clair. "We have a girl here."

"She doesn't mind. Newsflash: she's been smoking Mary Jane and swearing like a sailor for the past hour. She's probably heard and seen worse, anyways."

"A lot worse." Clair mumbled to herself. She didn't even realize she had spoken out loud until Tuuk responded.

"Like what?" He asked.

"Azathoth. Nyarlathotep. Been to the Underworld." She drew from the hookah again.

"You've been to the Underworld? To Pnath or…"

"Throk. That's were they killed my cat." She noticed that that was the first time she referred to Willow as "my cat". She didn't like it.

"You mean the one you told me about? Willy?"

"Willow."

"I'm sorry to hear about that, Clair." Johnny said apologetically.

"You lie. You didn't see Nyarl-at-hotep or Azag-Thoth." Said Dahlia, possibly breaking up their names on purpose. "Those sons of a bitches aren't real."

Clair's gaze shifted from the the captain to the pale woman, brows furrowed and teeth nearly gritted. She'd been called a liar once before and it didn't bother her, but now was different. Her temper was about to hit the roof. "Maybe I didn't." Clair suddenly chuckled. She could see that it upset the trio somehow. "No I didn't. I woke from a bad fucking dream and senile crackpot Atal told me to leave everything I loved behind to go to fucking nonexistent Kadath. I nearly starved to death, froze to death, and slaughtered a fucking ghoul." She could feel her face distort into a grimace, but still keeping the smile. The other three remained quiet, looking concerned. She continued. "I lost my cat too. That stupid fucking cat I had since I was a babe, and I lost it cause crackpot Atal sent me after imaginary gods! I met Randolph Carter too, who probably didn't exist! But somehow he scored me a ride on this shit bucket of a ship with three jackasses who do nothing but smoke—what was the stupid word you used?—pot! And I'm gonna get left behind in Leng to either die of starvation or get raped and murdered by Satyrs! All before I can meet the nonexistent god who didn't fucking call me there!"

"Clair, chill." Tuuk calmly commanded.

"Shut up. I guess I am a liar, aren't I?" Her smile faded. Her pink and emerald eyes leered at the pale woman from across the table. Clair leaned across the edge, nails digging into the wood. "My life is ruined because of a lie…"

"Damn. Sorry, girl." Dahlia scoffed, her apology completely void of sincerity.

A thick and uncomfortable silence lingered in the air for a while as the two males shifted in their seats, hesitant to even drum their fingers on the table. Dahlia merely regarded the girl with a blank stare. Clair leaned back, arms crossed over her chest, and a scowl creasing her face. She looked out of one of the portholes at the night blanketed ocean, unable to face Dahlia.

"It was just a joke." Dahlia suddenly tried to amend.

"Fuck you." Clair growled.

Wanting to ease the tension, Tuuk looked inside the hookah and casually announced that it had been used up. "Its all gone. Time to hit the hay, everyone! Night's over. Johnny, can you take watch tonight?"

The Pargian gave a thumbs up before walking his stout mass out onto the deck. Dahlia followed, refusing to look Clair in the eye. Tuuk Stood and told the girl "Uh…sorry about her. She's got…Aspergers…or something. Are you okay? We cool?"

Clair eased a bit, but refused to meet Tuuk's passive gaze. "Where am I sleeping tonight?"

"I got a hammock set up in the cargo hold, if that's okay."

Clair nodded. She stood and started for the door, turning back only once to give Tuuk a sort of morose look and muttered "I'm sorry you had to hear that."

"Don't worry about it, kid. Forget it and get some shut-eye. Just don't bite anyone else's head off before we hit Leng or we'll have to ditch you in the middle of the sea." Tuuk's toothy grin and barely audible snicker told her that that was meant to be a joke.

She didn't laugh.

 


	19. Under the Towers

Through the night to undergo a steep change.  
Blindness to death, thy cries are deranged.  
—Unknown

 

 

 

 

Clair found it hard to sleep that night (which was mostly true for any previous night, but this one was especially restless) not only because of the stomach lurching tilting of the ship—or the fear of the next nightmare episode or because she knew she would be stepping foot on the frozen dirt of Leng in only two days—but because of the chewing out she gave Dahlia. Did she feel guilty about it? She didn't really know. Maybe she knew Dahlia didn't deserve to be snapped at, but it was Dahlia's words that disturbed her, almost as much as her own. Again she found herself wondering if she was on an endless journey of delusions, and that everything that had happened to her and everything she had done was for nothing.

It was dark in the carbo hold, but she didn't need light to know that it was the side of a wine barrel she had hit when her hammock swung to far to one side. For a passing moment she thought she smelt the pungent alcohol, slowly aging in its container. Her elbow happened to break her impact, but she had struck the sensitive cluster of nerves in her joint. The tingly pain lasted only a minute, but it was enough to distract her from her demons.

Out a porthole that hung directly over her head she saw the passing, black canvas of stars, moving so slowly it almost seemed as if it weren't moving at all…or at least, seemed as if the boat wasn't moving. But the boat was moving. The stars still moved and the waves still lapped and licked against the outside as _The Furtive Siren_ sailed about.

She started thinking about her meltdown again. It was so unlike her, so she thought. The Clair who had lived in Ulthar would never have done that, even to the most obnoxious of dunks. It made her wonder if she had changed since her departure or if that's who she was all along: a short tempered, disillusioned little child trapped behind the mask of a docile farm girl.

She didn't feel guilty. Why should she? Dahlia wasn't the one being led by the nose to the doorstep of the gods. What right did she have in saying that Nyarlathotep or his father weren't real?

Still, though, it wasn't the way Clair's mother taught her to behave. These people are escorting her to Leng and she had to go and thank them with an angered rant. Thirteen years of being taught good old Ultharian values suddenly deconstructed in only a month or two.

She turned on her side, facing away from the porthole. As the ship tilted, a box slid across the deck, making an awful grinding noise that reverberated through the dark. Her satchel sat just under hammock. Unlike the box, it remained steadfast, but it's contents shifted with a little orchestra of crunching, sloshing, and clinking. She still had about a canteen and half of water in there, but without a doubt it will freeze in Leng. She only spent a moment thinking about how to approach that problem.

The waves outside lulled her into another daze, wherein she began rewinding every blissful and painful event of her journey in her mind. From the the unnecessary battle of the tiny Zoogs to her rejection at the gates of Thran. From being hunted by starving ghouls to sleeping in a real bed at Carter's home. And of course, she couldn't refrain from seeing Willow in her mind's eye.

What will happen when she reaches Kadath? That is the last thought she had before she hears the thumping of feet climbing down the ladder to the carbo hold. She sees the orange glow of a lantern on the edges of the stacked crates and barrels as Tuuk enters.

"Clair? You awake?" He speaks so low she barely hears him. Clair considers pretending she's asleep. Whatever it is Tuuk wants, she was sure it wasn't worth losing sleep over, but she decides to give him a response anyways.

"What?"

"You should come see this." He says, inviting her up on deck with a wave of his hand.

"What is it?" She ask, but Tuuk doesn't answer. He doesn't need to. Clair suddenly notices that her surroundings are cast in a faint, pinkish glow spilling in from the portholes. It steadily and slowly flickers like the firelight of a candle. Then she notices the sounds of crashing water. Sounds like those of a…

"A waterfall?" She said, sitting up on her elbows. The outside glass of the porthole was completely fogged over, rendering visibility to the outside nearly impossible.

Tuuk was already retreating up the ladder when he shouted "Ya coming?"

"Sure." She called back. She slipped on her jacket and followed the captain.

The outside deck was completely bathed in the pink glow, disturbed only by the fluttering shadows of the sails. The sound of the unseen waterfalls was almost thunderous. Her eyes had slight difficulty adjusting to the light (she wondered if spending weeks in the Underworld had fucked up her eyesight), which was almost the equivalent of late dusk, except it was a near monotonous pink.

Actually, no it wasn't entirely pink. As her sight adjusted she began to differentiate various patches of iridescent hues that would fade in and out of existence along the deck and mast. The light was magnified—made nearly omnipotent—by the cold mist that covered the ship. She didn't see Tuuk anywhere, but she found Johnny and Dahlia staring up at the sky as if they were entranced. Clair followed their gaze.

The beauty of the sight above was something that can never be put on paper.

Suspended in place of the sky was a literal city, composed of a vast expanse of hanging towers that glistening of pinkish-red, veined marble. They seemed to dangle from the clouds, fading into the world of sight like specters. Laced between these towers was a spiderweb of vine and flower draped bridges and buttresses that criss-crossed in an intricate yet deliberate way that made them seem like a work of art. There were platforms atop grooved and lighted cones that contained gardens of flora completely unknown to Clair; bluish or magenta fronds of razor edged leaves like canopies over vine like plants that twisted and wove around each other, as if they were locked in a never ending hug. Lanterns hung from every stained-glass window and from every hanging street post, casting the ghostly globules of color. From the the clouds above or falling over the edges of garden-side ponds, cascaded an uncountable number of waterfalls that fell and crashed into the ocean, sending out the clouds of mist that hid _The Furtive Siren_.

"I've travelled the Cerenarian thousands of times…" Clair heard Tuuk say wistfully. She rounded to see captain sitting on a barrel against the railing. His hands, lowered between his knees, absentmindedly shuffled around a gin bottle. His eyes were locked on the scene above. The way they glistened made it look like he was crying. He continued. "But never before have I crossed paths with Serannian. I've never even seen it from a distance." He smiled. "It's beautiful."

"This is Serannian?" Clair asked. A memory from a distant beach came to mind.

"What else could it be? Ever since the Elder War, I was told that Serannian was destroyed. For some reason I never did believe them. Now, here it is…" He let his words hang in the air.

Clair was captivated to say the least. She thought Thran and Celephaïs were pleasing to the eye, but the beauty of this place was unnatural.

As the stalactite-like towers came and went with _The Furtive Siren_ 's passing, Clair thought she could hear the growing sound of a string orchestra. Starting out as a distant noise, it gradually became more profound. The hypnotic music reverberated from the spires and through the air.

All four of them silently stood, watching for many hours, letting their ship lazily sail through the misted waters. It wasn't until the ship passed under the core of Serannian that the crew moved even the slightest.

There was a cavernous hole—several miles wide and several more deep—in the clouds and towers, funneling upwards through the city. From the hole radiated an intense pink light that allowed very little visibility. The four shielded their eyes, but still attempted to see what hid behind the light. At the temporary expense of their vision, they all a saw it: a massive, churning structure resembling a gyroscope. It's rings—seemingly suspended in midair—slowly revolved around one another, leaving behind scarlet trails of light.

"The engine of Serannian I'm sure." Johnny awed.

"And to think," Tuuk responded. "All of this belongs to His Majesty. Greedy bastard kept this from all the commoners in Celephaïs for decades."

The core passed in time, allowing everyone's eyesight to quickly return. Once vision was possibly, the three sailors resumed staring. They didn't notice Clair quietly slip below deck again to return to her hammock. The pink glow still persisted, outlining her satchel that laid tipped over and the contents scattered about the floor. The hammock rocked to and fro as if a ghost was lounging in it. Without thinking about it, she picked up her glock—still in it's holster and lying amongst scattered biscuits and the leaf-like fragments of the scroll—and wrapped it around her waist. The subconscious urge to feel it's weight on her hip must have compelled her.

She considered curling up in the hammock again, but instead she leaned against the nearest crate, bracing herself against the unrelenting rocking of the ship. She closed her eyes and took a shallow breath, entering a meditative state with only one memory lingering on her mind.

On a beach, somewhere on the other side of the Cennarian, she had once watched the city of the clouds from a distance—a pink smudge on the morning sky—longing to behold it's full splendor. Now here she is, under the deck of an Aether Yacht while said city sung above her. On that beach she made a promise.

She was younger then, only by a mere month or so, but nonetheless younger. She never would have guessed that she would break that promise so easily…

_One day, we’ll go there. Perhaps we’ll see it up close during our voyage._

That day she fancied herself and Willow, together and happy, watching Serannian as they passed it aboard an imagined ship. Another naïve hope for the imaginary serenity that would come. The city, so she thought, wouldn't just be another pretty sight on their way to Kadath, but a mark to show that they had both survived another hundred miles. She jested herself in believing that survival for the both of them was a possibility. Now the city she had promised to herself and Willow loomed above and she was the only one alive to see it. She had marched another hundred miles; left Willow dead and dared to continue.

She hated herself for surviving. Nyarlathotep knew this. That's why he bothered to keep her alive.

The pink glow was beginning to dim, signifying the Serannian was receding. Within moments the cargo hold was dark again, lit only buy the barely noticeable disks of lighter black that signified the presence of the portholes. Other than that, everything else was just undisturbed darkness.

Every detail of that moment seemed far too clear; her sitting cross legged on the sands of a distant beach, listening to the waves rise and crash only a few feet away. Her eyes were locked on the negligible pink smudge above the horizon and Willow was curled on her lap, purring.

 _We’ll go there together._ She lied to Willow.

Not long after, she fell into the Underworld, where Willow was destined to die. Prior to that, Clair never experienced the death of a loved one. Father, mother, grandparents, uncle, aunt, everyone she ever knew in love was alive and well from her birth to her departure. Death wasn't unfamiliar, but the concept was very distant from her mind, to the point where it seemed—on a subconscious level—neither her nor Willow nor family would ever die. Proven wrong at last, she had no idea how to handle it.

 _Do you miss your little cat, Clair_? She could hear Nyarlathotep mock.

Clair ignored him, trying to cover up his presence with fond but continuously dwindling memories and images of Willow and Ulthar.

 _I'm afraid that isn't going to work, child. Nyarlathotep continued. I have untethered access to all levels of your sick, disturbed mind, Clair_.

"Leave me alone…" Clair mumbled, still trying to ignore him. She continued to picture the more pleasant moments of her and Willow's lives, despite their vagueness. The moment they went fishing together and Willow managed to land a whole school of baby trout; during Candlemas Eve on her sixth year when her mother cooked the largest turkey she had ever seen; when…

…when she saw Willow lying on the bone laden ground, surrounded in a pool of blood. Her own knife sticking out of his chest; the dying consciousness in his eyes. Pickman stood above him, snarling. The lamp light played over them both, casting one side in flickering orange and leaving the other in shadow. She didn't want to remember that. Somehow she knew Nyarlathotep had forced that memory to the surface. The moment this revelation came to her, she heard Nyarlathotep's cruel chuckle.

 _You'll never be rid of me_. He taunted in a sing-sing voice dripping with sadism.

"Leave me alone!" Clair hissed again through gritted teeth.

_Never!_

"Damn it!" Clair roared. "Why the fuck do you keep doing this to ME?!" Clair emphasized by swiftly swinging her arm and violently slamming her left fist against a nearby crate. The deep thud of bone on wood resonated through the cargo hold before falling silent, not only in the air but in Clair's mind.

Nyarlathotep was gone. And so was every sane and tranquil thought in Clair's head.

The pain in Clair's hand surfaced with a near audible series of throbs. She held back a pained squeal as she fell to her knees and then on her side, holding her injured hand against her stomach. Hot tears clouded her vision, made worse by the grinding of bruised, and possibly fractured, finger bones. She ran the fingers of her good hand over the other, feeling the small but numerous scratches the coarse wood of the crate had made.

She curled in on herself, hugging her knees, and began to sob.

"I want to go home…" she sniffled.

To the sound of the midnight waves scraping against the side of _The Furtive Siren_ , Clair cried herself to sleep.


	20. Memory Embodied in Fractured Poetics

Mercifully, she remembered very little of her dreams that night. If they were haunted by Nyarlathotep at all, she could not recall it. It was relieving, especially considering the Crawling Chaos appeared in every nightmare since her departure from Ulthar. It was nice to have one night that wasn't followed by a morning corrupted with lingering fear or dread. Nyarlathotep left no trace, but faint fragments of the dream still remained, just enough to let her know she ever dreamed at all. What she could remember was merely the impression of being within a city, or at least within a crowded or unnatural place. Despite this feeling, she was still felt alone in a sense. She talked, but no one listened. The entirety of her words were lost save for the apologetic tone they carried. Who she apologized to was also something she couldn't tell, but she wanted to assume it was Willow.

She awoke, leaving her night visions to quickly fade. To no surprise she found herself still curled up in a fetal position on the floor, the way she had fallen asleep after her talk with Nyarlethotep. She waited a moment before rising, wanting just a few more seconds to rest. Already the pain in her shoulder and hip due to sleeping on the ungiving wooden deck was become apparent. Following that was the awareness of the dull soreness in her hand from when she struck the crate. The small scratches in her skin were well healed, but there were a multitude of small splinters, though not large enough to cause any intense irritation.

She heaved her torso off the floor, sitting herself on her bottom with her aching back to the crate. She was stiff. There were a few moments before her legs would allow her to move freely, but in the meantime she casually picked the bits of wood from her hand.

Morning light flooded in through the porthole. The gentle swaying of _The Furtive Siren_ made the hammock swing to and fro. She considered napping in it for a few minutes, but resolved to stay were she was instead. Spurred by the thought of her dream apology, her mind drifted to Willow. She remembered she once apologized to him whilst sobbing in the Underworld, mere moments before he died. It felt appropriate. Most people never tell the victims of fate "sorry" before they're done in, yet Clair had done just that, as if she foresaw his demise. It was ridiculous, of course, the notion she could see the future. She would have liked to have believed she felt guilty for getting them both trapped in the Underworld, but she could barely remember that moment. Like the dream, all she could remember is the vague impression of her apologizing. She didn't kill Willow. She set the stage for his killing—that she desperately wanted to apologize for—but it was Pickman who killed him.

Upon the thought of the ghoul, she remembered the dream from Celephaïs. The sickening, twisted, visceral parody of herself—looking over the decapitated Pickman in a near erotic state of joy—flashed in her mind. She wished she had more pleasant memories to drown out her doppelgänger—her Dead-Self as she lazily dubbed it—but they've all been reduced to distant, dream-like blurs.

She hated Pickman, but she hated the thought of becoming something like her Dead-Self even more. Yet she was afraid she could never banish the thought of enacting some sort of justice on that monster. Maybe that's one of the things she subconsciously felt she needed to apologize for. Not only for condemning Willow, but for becoming a bloodthirsty sub-human. Denying it all she wished, she couldn't help but feel some sort ecstasy when she imagined Pickman's savage blood slicking her fingers, especially when that thought was proceeded by the image of said ghoul executing her best friend.

Was going to Kadath a sort of cosmic punishment? Was her subconscious apology a repentance for a crime she had no knowledge of? She was never a perfect girl. She made more mistakes in the totality of her lifetime than she could care to count. But for a long moment she could think of nothing so severe to justify what's being done to her, yet to her astonishment a few of her memories began to resurface upon thinking of the possibility of karma. All at once she saw several moments in her life. Moments in which she was at her most despicable.

She remembered a time when she stole from her mother's purse; a moment in which she had vandalized the Burgomasters office; when she squashed her neighbor's tomatoes for fun; when she fibbed about another girl, telling everyone she had a disease that melts your eyeballs; when she called a slow witted boy a retard because he had gave her a weird look. And then there was the moment she had long since forgotten about, probably because it was so shameful she had no choice but to forget it, else it would tear her apart from the inside out. It was an act—the one act—she deemed beyond heinous and unforgivable in the most extreme: when she had stabbed Willow, long ago when she was eight.

It remained unclear why, but she remembered being distraught, possibly being angry or sad or both. She only recalled being in some sort of mental turmoil. Willow was there for her like he always was, but she ignored him. She sobbed. She fumed. And Willow dared to curl up against his human in an effort to be of comfort. Then, somehow, Clair snapped. Nothing was clear. Only a mad storm of emotion that drove her into a fit. She grabbed the nearest object, a pen, and in blind rage drove it through Willow's leg in a swift and savage arching of her arm. The sound of breaking flesh and the pained, piercing howl of the injured cat brought her out of her angered daze. Before she had fully realized what she had done, Willow was already hiding under a nearby piece of furniture. She remembered she cried. Through her sobbing, she tried to call out to Willow and tell him she was sorry, but Willow refused to come out. It went on like this almost two weeks, during which time she hid in her room whenever she could, believing Willow would never forgive her and knowing she would never forgive herself. Eventually, though, Willow did forgive and the whole ordeal became a forgotten episode. It was appalling now to think that such a crime against her one and truest friend was so casually dismissed. All this time she thought nothing of it, unaware that she never deserved Willow.

"I'm sorry." She voiced to herself but more so to the memory of Willow. She picked out the last of the splinters and flicked them away. She grabbed her satchel and browsed its contents, pulling out a stale biscuit and began taking small bites as she wrapped the bag's strap around her body and walked out onto the deck. The air was humid and cool in a way that was normal for a mid-spring morning. The sun was nothing more than smudge of light hugging the Eastern horizon and the waves rose and created lazily as golden light bounced off their crystalline surfaces. She saw that no one else was on deck. Johnny was still stationed in the crow's nest, but apparently had not noticed her presence, which she thought was a good thing of course. After the rowdiness the crew exposed her to last night she would want nothing more than a quiet morning. The silence was more than welcome. Leaning over the port railing, she took in the sight of the seemingly eternal ocean, the sun beating down her back with cold rays. Not far away, a lone albatross glided above the water, seemingly to follow _The Furtive Siren_. The stillness of it's wings and it's stiff tilting movements made it look like a toy suspended on a strand of fishing wire, much to Clair's amusement. In the foaming cataracts created by the ship's passing she could see a score of lozenge shaped silhouettes beating their way through the violently churning water. For a time she watched them with curiosity until one suddenly leapt out of the water, startling her. To her surprise, the fish glided through the air on vast, wing-like fins that were easily three times it's body length. Sunlight sparkled on the slick scales on the fish's dorsal before it landed in the white waters again with a cute sounding splash.

While continuing to take in the sight, she began absentmindedly shuffling her hand through her bag. She felt her ragged fingernails graze one of the dried fragments of the scroll and her interest sharply piqued when she considered she hasn't examined them since discovering it in the grip of that corpse. It laid it ruins, but she assumed she could still figure what it once read by putting the pieces together. She pulled out a thick clump of reddish fragments, gently clasped between her fingers and began to examine the incomplete messages thereon. The words were faded, and most of which rendered fragmentary by the breaking of the paper, but overall they were still legible. The edges of the fragments didn't seem to match up no matter what combination she put them in, which was understandable considering the scrolls poor state. Still, she wished to make some sense of the scattered bits of verse. She began coupling or grouping the fragments in attempt to arrange the words into sentences that would make at least some sense. With a few creative attempts, she succeeded, much to her surprise. Two fragments created "The trees and rivers faded away", three formed "Was it my idiocy that drove me to the gates of my Black House", and a large fragment completed with a smaller one read "They come crawling across the floor, sleeping visions till the morning". She continued on like this, feeling robotically compelled to put the verses back to together. Strangely, it was as if she was trying to find some sort of message within the verse, though what that message was, she didn't know. With each experiment, she created several odd phrases, but none seemed of any significance. Thinking logically, she knew there should be absolutely nothing of any true value in random stitched together words, but the feeling that there was meaning to the dissolved scroll was to strong.

And then that meaning manifested itself.

In between her fingers, she clasped the unlikely union of five ragged fragments and written thereon was a dreadfully familiar couplet: " _The grey face of extinction wanes true. To dead heavens, carnage calls for you_ ". Her blood froze cold in her veins hearing those words again. Sitting like a lead weight on her memory, it brought with it the images of the Lich-Daemon and Clair's grotesque counterpart; their mangled faces and crazed stare vivid in her mind's eye. Suddenly, she was no longer seated on the windswept deck of the Aether Yacht, but standing amid the ruins of the nameless city under a churning crimson sky, the same setting of the dream she had in Celephaïs. She felt the presence of her Dead-Self, but couldn't see her; just felt her lunacy in the same way one could feel someones intrusive gaze. She didn't need to be there long to know that her Dead-Self wasn't a separate entity within this desolation, but a fragment of herself; one she never thought she possessed. While countless bodies littered the pitted streets of the ruins, filling the air with the putrid gases of rot, Clair's Dead-Self slumped in the blackest recesses of her mind, enjoying this visceral show. It urged Clair to revel in this sea of cadavers and enjoy the liberating foulness of death. She could see—or rather, felt—her Dead-Self's bloody, ragged lipped grin from behind the darkness of her thoughts and heard it's sadistic whispers slipping past it's teeth.

Likewise, the Lich-Daemon was there, shrouded somewhere behind the fabric of reality, invisible in the ruins. Clair could feel it as well, but unlike Dead-Self's coaxing, the Daemon's attitude was something like indifference, showing in cold condescending eyes that were invisible, yet the omnipotent gaze was cast through the dying celestial bodies and the decaying eyes of the corpses. But like her Dead-Self, she felt some sort of connection to the monster, like it was also a part of her.

The longer these entities lingered and the more they continued to foul her thoughts, the dirtier she felt. Knowing that They are not only in her, but that they are her in some way, made her feel like some low, filthy creature. Their savage thoughts of sadism, mutilation, and murder became her own. Seeing Pickman again—headless and sprawled at her feet—surfaced in her some kind of sick, demented joy that, despite how desperately she wanted the feeling to cease, she could not dissipate.

Now, all she could see was Willow and his innocence. The vicious dropping of her blade on his frail body flashed once more, followed by his agonized howls and the cascade of blood over the bones beneath him. Anger, fear, hated, and a concoction of other emotions flooded her, reliving this moment in her mind. But guilt was the most powerful among them. As she had contemplated before: Willow would have never died if she would have left him in the safety of Ulthar.

At this thought, she saw the hand wrapped around the blade's handle as it smit Willow dead, but it was not Pickman's. It was her her own. Not even her Dead-Self's filth laden claws, but the wholesome white fingers of the lively young girl she was in Ulthar was the hand that executed the feline. She realized that the moment she was seeing wasn't just that dreaded instance in the Underworld, but that distant day when she had driven a pen through Willow's leg.

Inside her mind, she screamed, trying to kill every hellish thought plaguing her with her scared but defiant voice. In seemed to be a miracle that she was even able to return to the material world, but all she did was open her eyes, as if leaving the shadows of a gruesome nightmare. She took a series of deep breaths as she looked around the deck of _The Furtive Siren_. There was the cloudless, blue sky. The sounds of the ocean. A sail fluttering to the wind. That albatross still nonchalantly gliding.

To her relief, there was no Dead-Self, no Lich-Daemon, no Pickman…

And no Willow.

The brief snapping of the main sails signaled the heightening of the ocean winds, and she quickly felt it tugging at her hair and the loose fabric of her skirt. The sudden but tiny chill on her cheeks told her she had been crying. With one hand, she wiped the tears away and unconsciously relaxed the fingers of her other, the one that held the cluster of fragments. One by the one, the pieces of parchment drifted from her grasp and swirled around in the breeze like a flock of drunken moths, then passing over the railing and fell to the sea. They silently tapped the surface of the foaming, white waters, drifting before being swallowed and condemned to the depths. By the time Clair noticed, the last of the fragments were beginning their descent. She would have been content in loosing them, considering the aching things they reminded her of, but something compelled her—possibly the same audacity that told her to talk back to the Crawling Chaos or burn a d'hole alive—to stretch her arm over the ship's side and catch the last fragment a mere second before it would've been out of her reach.

Written on one faded side were simply the words "Wake up."

The door to the cabin creaked open and Tuuk padded out carrying a number of items; a few white candles clutched in his fist, a wizened book under his arm, and a bloated leather pouch dangling from his other hand by a drawstring. He stopped to examine the sky—probably to judge the weather—and then proceeded past Clair.

"Morning." He greeted with a passive nod.

She said nothing. Only returning his gesture before he went to the open area at the center of the deck, carefully setting down his load. Clair watched as the captain intently eyed the Northern horizon, whereto the ship's angled bow currently pointed. Seemingly satisfied with that, he yelled up to the crow's nest where Johnny was still slumped. "Hey! Dude! You seeing what I'm seeing?!"

The brown blur at the top of the mast stirred, paused, and then yelled back "Yeah, man! That's it, ain't it?!"

"I think so! How long till we get there, you reckon?!"

Another pause. "Two, three days maybe?!"

With her curiosity piqued, Clair stood and walked over to where Tuuk was having his shouting match. She didn't have to address him before the captain noticed her approach. "What's up?" He asked, rather curtly.

"What's going on? Is there something ahead?"

"Yeah. You don't see it?" He nodded Northwards, directing Clair's attention.

She only took a superficial glance, during which she could see nothing more than the hazy sky, the infinite slate of the ocean, and the conceptually nonexistent line where the two met. "No."

"Nothin'? I see the Edge."

"We're almost there?" she tried her hardest to keep trepidation out of her voice.

"Yup. I guess you can't see anything 'cause you don't have a sailor's eyes, but I see black. Scant, but deeper than the Altars of Sarkomand. Hold on a sec. I'll see if I can borrow the 'scope for ya." He looked back up at Johnny and bellowed "You got a telescope up there?!"

"Yeah!" Johnny shouted back.

"Can I borrow it!?"

"No!"

"What do you mean 'no'?!"

"It means 'you can't borrow it'!"

"Why not?!"

"That's a dumb question!"

"You don't need it!"

"Yes I do! I'm the fucking watchman, dude! I'm the only one who does need it!"

Clair considered interjecting, but held her tongue, probably because she wanted to see how their 'conversation' plays out.

"I just want to borrow it!"

"Why?!"

"I wanna see shit! Why else?!"

"Last time I let you borrow the astrolabe, a tekeninemone ate it!"

"That was two years ago!"

"My point is is that you're very irresponsible with my equipment!"

"What the fuck are you talking about?! I'm the one who bought that telescope!"

"For the last damn time: NO!"

"You're a dick! You know that?! A fat, black dick!"

"Don't make this racial!"

"Well it just got racial! What are you gonna do?! Beat my ass?!"

"Yeah, I'm gonna beat your ass, white boy!"

"Come down here and say that to my face!"

"Maybe I will!"

"Well I hope you will!"

"Well, I will!"

"DUDE, I ALL I WANTED WAS THE FUCKING TELESCOPE! THIS GOT _WAY_ OUT OF HAND!"

"Maybe we should stop!"

"Just climb down here and give me the telescope!"

"I'm not climbing all the way down the mast just to…!"

"Well I'm not climbing all the way up!

"Seriously?!"

"I'm scared of heights, man! You know this!"

"You are so fucking stupid! You're afraid of heights, so you sail a flying boat for a living?! What the mother fucking fuck?!"

"DON'T JUDGE!"

At this point, after seeing that their not-so-friendly exchange was going nowhere, Clair decide it was best to tune them out. She walked over to the very front of the ship where the port and starboard railing merged into a "V" at the bow. Here—whether by illusion or otherwise—the wind seemed to be at it's strongest, being felt especially as she faced away from the direction in which it blew. She concentrated her attention Northward again, staring where the sea met the sky. She couldn't see the Edge, but yet she had no reason to doubt it was there. But she did know it was drawing closer, for she could feel the same strange and unwholesome miasma she felt when she came toe to toe with the Edge in Ooth-Nargai. It was much more faint than it was then, but the unsettling yet exhilarating feeling it gave her was unmistakable. She strained her eyes more trying to discern any color other than blue and deeper blue; something that may betray the Edge's presence. Then—like an image suddenly manifesting out of a mosaic—she saw it.

It was an impossibly thin hairline of darkness between the ocean and the heavens. It fact, it seemed so thin it should have been far less noticeable than a strand of hair wedged between two granite blocks, yet now that she had seen it, it was almost impossible to un-see it. She knew it was due to the deepness of the void beyond the Edge, wherein no light existed. As she had seen before in Ooth-Nargai and in the Underworld, true darkness is just as vivid as true light.

"Uh…I couldn't get the telescope." Clair turned at Tuuk's voice. When they're eye's met he just gave a casual shrug and a dull smirk. "The jackass on the mast is hoggin' it."

"Yo! I heard that!" Johnny shouted. Tuuk made a move to snap back, but instead pressed his lips together and waved off his watchman.

"It's alright." Clair assured. She pointed Northward. "I can see it."

"That was quick."

"Yeah. I can feel it too." She didn't know if it was necessary to let Tuuk know that, but she felt she needed to share it. "It…it feels wrong. But kinda right at the same time. I don't know what it is. I…uh…" she trailed off, not knowing what else to say. The fact began to set in; she was looking at the threshold between the sane world in which she grew up and the nightmare wastelands overrun by satyrs and ruled by the very entity who had hailed her from Ulthar; the land she was doomed to trod.

Tuuk scratched his scalp in an almost contemplative manner before saying "I know what you mean. That weird aura, It's those outsider things…"

"The Polyps?"

"The Polyps, the Larva, the Wraiths, the Other Gods, the Dancers, the Desh, all sorts of things."

"Are they malevolent?" Clair thought that was a foolish question, but she asked it anyways.

"Uh…that's kinda hard to say. Thing is, they can't be understood. Not just their—what's that word?—physiology and composition and all, but their mentality and behavior is something so unlike anything humans are used to. Some say not even the Crawling Chaos can control them."

"They're mindless." That was a fact (or a belief at least) she had read in the stories of Carter from when he had plunged into the annals of the Abyss on the back of a Shantak. Now restating it, she didn't mean for it to sound so certain.

"That's a theory anyways. Bottom line is that they're sporadic. They may or may not Attack us."

Hearing only what she had long suspected, she just gave a rude shrug in response.

"But," Tuuk continued. "I do have a ward. That's what all that stuff over there is for." He jerked a thumb at the items laid on the deck. "I'm gonna set up an Elder shield. If that goes well, those outsiders won't even be able to touch us."

For the first time that morning, Clair ventured to make eye contact with Tuuk. She was surprised to hear that the lax, foul-mouthed sailor was a mage. She had been conditioned since birth to believe that wizards or anyone who practices the mystic arts were inherently malicious, the only exceptions being Ulthar's own Atal and his student. Due to this, she felt slightly uneasy at learning this about the captain, but her logical mind told her that if Tuuk meant to do her any harm he would have done it already.

Unless he was insane. Or wished to use her as virgin sacrifice or an unwilling cog in his mysterious machinations like the villains in those poorly crafted penny novels she used to read as a child. Up until this point, she had felt reasonably safe around Tuuk so her fears were somewhat dispelled by that fact, but then again penny novel villains were usually excellent liars.

She pushed these notions from her mind and masked them over by saying "I never would have guessed you know magic."

He shrugged. "I've been all over world, or the parts of it that still exist anyways. You inevitably pick up a few neat tricks here and there when you travel. I'm a little worried I'll fuck this up though. Magic is a fickle bitch." He turned to regard his supplies again, then looked up at the sky to read the sun's position, and finally settled his gaze Northward on the Edge. "We have a couple of days till we hit our mark. I'll wait until we're a few hours due to the Edge, but for now let's just enjoy being somewhere other than Leng. We can set up the circle in meantime. You want to help?"

Clair almost said "no", but decided against it. She's been rude enough for one trip. "The what?"

"The circle. You know, a pentagram, altar, place where you kill a sheep to summon a demon bigger than your head…irresponsibly so." That last comment didn't help quell Clair's prejudice against wizards. After seeing that Clair was still a little confused he offered "Here, I'll just show you." He walked over to pick up the leather pouch, Clair staying at his shoulder. He pushed the book, the candles, and any other obstruction (including a certain albatross that suddenly became interested in _The Furtive Siren_ ) aside, creating a sizable space in the middle of the deck. He pulled open the pouch's drawstring and allowed the girl a peek at it's contents, which was a sugar-like powder flecked with grains of blue. "This is ceremonial salt. Basically it's crucial to help establish a link with the gods'…uh…'network' I guess you can call it."

"The Elder Gods?" Clair queried, thinking of the deities she'd forsaken.

"Yes. Primarily Orryx though, who's supposedly the chief Watcher of this world and the next few over."

"We're calling upon a Watcher?"

"No. Just their 'network'. Wherever they go, they leave behind a certain trace that's very difficult to explain or comprehend, but this trace has some form of protective qualities that mortals can call upon. This trace becomes the permanent 'network' that some magicians like me utilize. This salt—along with the proper incantations, soul projection, blood sacrifice, etcetera etcetera—can tap into the network and more or less use it as a shield."

"Did you say blood sacrifice?" Clair tried not to sound as worried as she was.

Tuuk gave her a toothy smile and paused just long enough to unnerve the girl before saying "Well of course! We need to kill someone for this ritual, and as far as I know you're the only virgin on this ship."

Shock flashed across Clair's features. She took a few steps back and reached for her gun, but paused when Tuuk bent over in childish laughter.

"I'm kidding! No, I'm not gonna sacrifice you. Hell, why would I? We're going on this journey for you, so…"

That made sense.

"No killing." Tuuk continued. "I'm just gonna use some of my own blood as a catalyst. No big deal." He briefly giggled one more time, amused at his own jest. He signaled Clair to step back a few paces as he cracked open his book, skimming the yellowed papers therein. "When I pour the salt, I need you to be quiet. I haven't done this in years, so I'm a little rusty. Need to be as focused as possible."

With a nod, Clair complied. She backed away until the small of her back was against the railing. She silently watched the captain began crafting his design, laying down two concentric circles of salt about three meters in girth with the slow patience and care of an old blacksmith forging a weapon, all while reading aloud from the book. The words he uttered were strange and guttural. At times they seemed so wrong and bestial that Clair could almost fancy Tuuk being some kind of demonic frog in the skin of a man. Between verses, she would catch familiar words like "Orryx", "Nodens", repetitive uses of "Iä", and Tuuk's own name.

When the circle was finished, he placed himself in it's center, still chanting but now complementing the ritual with quick and sporadic hand gestures. These being almost as disturbingly weird as the incantations. A couple of times, he twisted his hand into the Elder Sign gesture and held it high and proud as if showing a salute for the Gods. Clair reflected on how she used to make that same sign in the temples of Ulthar to strengthen her connection to Bast, but now she's abandoned her patronage, leaving the Elder Sign as a dead salute.

Tuuk, when finished with his litany, then began drawing convoluted designs within the circle. This he also did while chanting. Within moments he was done, placing his book and mostly empty pouch aside. He stood within the center of the circle, erect and in total silence. His head hung low, eyes shut, and lips rhythmically moving in the slightest, indicating that he was praying beneath his breath.

Soon, he concluded the ritual, leaving the vicinity of circle and taking care not to scuff the fragile lines of salt that composed it. Clair watched as he examined it from several angles, seeming to be fairly satisfied with how it came together. She walked towards the design when she was sure Tuuk was absolutely done. He made no protest as she came close enough to the circle that her mid-morning shadow overlapped the outer ring. Mimicking Tuuk's careful steps, she made sure to not disturb the salt. A short but strong gust swept over The Furtive Siren, and to Clair's amazement the powder remained undisturbed. Not a single grain that she could see was carried aloft.

"Like I said," Tuuk assured. "we'll wait to activate the shield on the day of. With any luck, the circle's dimensions are correct enough to make that possible, but until then it'll decorate the deck for a while. Should give me the time to make any corrections if need be."

Still examining the circle's inner contours in fascination, she barely registered what Tuuk had to say. She heard just enough to repay him a nod without eye contact. The captain mumbled something else before padding off to the cabin, leaving Clair on her own.

Seconds later, after finding she had no reason to continue standing there, she followed the captain's suit. To no surprise, she found the designs within the circle familiar, bringing a sense of security. The doubled rings surrounding the twisted limbs of a five pointed star, wherein a blazing eye leered at the sky, resembled the greenish star-stones Carter gave her. She removed one of those stones from her bag and ran her fingers over it, re-familiarizing herself with it's odd shape and mentally comparing it to the circle, which was evidently formed in the shape of a Mnarian Elder Sign.

 


	21. From One World to Another

For the remainder of the voyage, she didn't sleep. She tried, but no matter which drugs she took to ease her racing mind (and to no surprise, Tuuk had a lot of them) she found it impossible to rest. How could she sleep knowing Leng awaited her in less than forty hours? In all consideration, really, she didn't even want to sleep. Nyarlathotep's nightmare messages were getting old, but no less horrifying. Or at least that's how it seemed. At Carter's house, she dreamed she stood up to the Crawling Chaos and she hoped that would do something to strengthen her will against the god, and maybe it did, but Nyarlathotep was a god of fear who's proven time and time again that he will always have more to torment her with. Was Lich-Daemon not a prime example of this? She had little idea what that thing was, though, aside from the fact that she held some kind of anti-amity with it. She couldn't say for certain what or if it had anything to do with Nyarlathotep, but she didn't find that question worth consideration right now. All she knew about Lich-Daemon at that point was that it reared its appalling face in her dreams once before, and again in her waking hours, so there's little doubt that it will appear again if—by some miracle chance—she did sleep.

However, the lack of rest wasn't without it's toll. Her body hurt, her eyes were sore, her thoughts were cloudy, and she had almost no motivation to do anything aside from pacing the deck, which was all she bothered to do for the majority of the remaining two days at sea. The barely noticeable shifting of her legs and the clumping of her heavily scuffed boots against the wood floor wasn't enough to keep her alert. Not even the perpetual sea breeze and the occasional laughter and antics of the other three sailors, sounding from the inside of the cabin, was enough to keep her mind anchored to reality. Worry, anguish, anger, fear, as well as several other emotions accumulated from the course of her journey swam around in her mind, unorganized and unfocused. She thought of Willow and the couplet. Of Pickman and of Leng. Of Nyarlathotep and Dead-Self. Of Ulthar and her fate atop Kadath.

As her hands swayed rhythmically to her swift footed steps, her wrist frequently grazed the gun hanging at her hip. Despite knowing that it would never save her from Nyarlathotep—much less the soul consuming fear he fanned—it gave her an odd sense of comfort. In a time like this, where life and sanity was on the line, having the power to kill and dominate was reassuring, even if it is only affective on satyrs and ghouls.

Day three passed without event, as did the greater portion of day four, which was the final day of their voyage. Throughout the daylight hours, the Edge was growing closer and closer and likewise growing larger like some hideous maw slowly opening. Like the side in Ooth-Nargai, this end of the Edge appeared much like a vast wall of black obscuring—no, consuming—the entire Northern horizon. It's radiance also grew with it, becoming more noticeable with each passing hour. It tugged at her in a way both enticing and dreadful, keeping her attention locked.

When she was looking, Tuuk approached her and playfully tapped the top of her head with an unopened bottle. Clair turned and spasmed like a startled mouse, easing slightly when she saw who it was. "Here." He said, offering the beverage. "You look a little on edge. You might need it."

She looked at the bottle as if it were a weapon, and then to Tuuk, not knowing what to make of the kind gesture.

"It's root beer." He continued. "I noticed the weed didn't help. Nor did any of the roots. Figured a little caffeine might do the trick."

She forced a smile and grabbed the bottle. After wrestling open the cap and downing almost a quarter, she said "I'm so nervous." Under any other circumstances, she never would have admitted that.

He chuckled and gave her a light punch in the shoulder "Hey, don't act like such a badass." He paused, hoping to solicit a laugh. Again, she didn't. "You'll be fine. I'm pretty sure you didn't just skip all the way across the Dreamlands, from Ulthar to here."

It took a moment for her to understand the captain's meaning. "It was hard getting to this point, but…but It's Leng. Kadath too." She swallowed, holding back a sudden sob. "There's no chance I'm going to survive this."

She sun was quickly encroaching the West, heralding in the end of the last day of the voyage. She made herself recall the conversation she and Randolph Carter had. _I need you to promise me, Clair, that you’re going to be brave when you enter Kadath_ , he said. She wanted to uphold that, but was very far from confident in her ability to face Nyarlathotep. He meant well, but in hindsight his observations were just the assumptions of a man who's won one too many battles against deities. The assumptions born of a deadly mixture of ego and luck. Although, Carter talked about death as if it were nothing more than an inconvenience; like the final chapter of a story that ended too soon and too abruptly. She could understand his nonchalantness towards death—he is old after all, having lived in an alien for several hundred millennia—but Clair was young, ignorant, and has yet to experience several decades of life that her parents once promised her. Fear was a primal instinct anyways. Being somewhat impetuous, she learned that ignoring instinct was almost impossible.

The Elder Sign on the deck—adorned with a quintet of unlit candlesticks, each one set at a different tip of it's star-like radials—emanated a warmth that grazed the skin on her arms every time she passed it in her pacing. Whether the feeling was imaginary or not didn't change the fact that it was comforting. As night set in and the constellations began unveiling themselves star by star, the salt composing the Sign's contours took on a night piercing quality. Not exactly glowing—or giving off light—but remained noticeable as darkness blanketed the ship. This might have been an illusion too, but living with every third moment being infested with waking nightmares taught her to stop giving a fuck about illusions. To this thought, she took a long, hard swig of her root beer, savoring the bubbles that burst at the back of her throat and set free burning carbon that rocketed out of her nostrils.

"Two hours, people!" Tuuk addressed his crew mates, who were just returning from their tasks below deck. "Make sure the sails are firm, the engine coolants are full, and that the axis stabilizers are up to par! The last thing I want now is to capsize and burn to a crisp in the middle of the nothing ocean!" As he waved off Johnny and signaled Dahlia to await her orders, Tuuk paused and stole a glance at the Edge. Even in the absolute absence of sunlight, the hole in the universe remained oppressively noticeable. The stars and planets didn't even need to be present to discern the black of the midnight sky and the black of the ultimate void. The gaping rift in the universe was deep and endless enough to pierce the most lightless shroud of darkness that could exist within the tangible universe. Clair watched—her inner anxiety getting heavier and heavier—as the firmament shifted it's usual coarse, and star after star winked out of visibility as it moved behind the Edge like reflective marbles behind an enormous theater curtain.

Padding over to the Elder Sign with a book of matches in hand, the captain resumed, this time speaking to the bored looking Dahlia "I need you to man the helm. Set cruising speed for 120 VK's, and be on standby when Johnny gives the green light to fire up the SET-drives. And don't initiate the lift sequence till we're within at least half a kilometer of the third-level particle parameter."

Arms crossed, Dahlia asked "And when do you want me to kickstart the counter vacuum? Or do you want the engines to just bleed dry in mid flight?"

Counter vacuum? SET-drives? VK's? Clair has no idea what either of them were talking about and didn't think it a good idea to ask or try to figure it out by herself. But if there were any moment that made her feel like a peasant bumpkin, it was idly standing there listening to the two sailors talk about technology that was all but nonexistent in Ulthar.

Tuuk swore under his breath at the woman's sour attitude as he started lighting the Sign's candles and in doing so bringing a little more light to the mostly shadowed ship. "Don't start the counter vacuum until the first proton purging is done."

Satisfied with her orders, Dahlia vanished to the bridge, but not before giving both Clair and her captain a sharp glance.

"Anything you need me to do?" Clair asked Tuuk in a needless attempt to be helpful.

"Have any clue how to gauge EEG levels?" Tuuk countered as he lit the final candle and disposed of the match stub over the side of the ship.

️Half suspecting Tuuk was trying to be snide, Clair didn't give him the privilege of an answer, instead offering a half scowl.

"Didn't think so. It's alright though. Aether tech is something that takes years of hard training to understand. I can't think of anything to ask of you except that you sit there and be patient. And try not to freak out too much when we go over."

"How long will we be between the Edge and Leng?"

Scratching his freshly cropped beard, Tuuk hummed in contemplation before saying "Can't be sure. Could show up at the Plateau as soon as we cross over or we could spend almost a year stranded in the Outside."

"That…that doesn't sound very assuring. How could you be so unsure about that? There's a huge difference between a few seconds and a full year."

"Don't be a smart ass. Alright? What your forgetting to realize is that time and distance are things characteristic to the material plane. A place dominated—and ultimately controlled—by the strict laws of cause and effect."

"So?"

"So…" Tuuk jabbed a finger towards the still growing Edge. "The Outside is completely devoid of time and space, and of matter and energy. It's not like taking a walk downtown, from your typical point A to old point B. No. There is no distance in there and no point A or point B. Just emptiness. There isn't even such thing as the basic concept of progression."

"That doesn't make sense!"

"Maybe not, but I've seen this shit play out before. Remember, I went searching for Cathuria once. I know what the ultimate Abyss is like."

"Okay." Clair rubbed her hands through her hair in emphasis of her futile attempt to understand Tuuk's pseudoscience. "If there is no time nor material, then what's going to keep us from…I don't know? Freezing, or dying from no atmosphere or no time to…to…No. This doesn't make sense."

"The Elder Shield will more or less enclose us in our own personal, uh, continuum, I guess. It'll keep everything within it's boundary intact and maintain our own personal spacetime sphere while also keeping all the things that don't belong in our universe—like the monsters—from getting in."

"So it keeps the Outside out and the inside in. That makes sense."

"Speaking of the Elder shield" Tuuk remembered, turning his attention to the circle of salt that seemed to sparkle in the candlelight. "It's nigh time I activate it." He motioned for Clair to step back a few paces as he stooped to pick his grimoire off the deck.

After discarding the half emptied root beer she forgot she had over the starboard side, Clair put some considerable distance between her and Tuuk's circle and sat crosslegged near the front of the darkened bow, watching the captain as he stepped within the beacon-like island of wavering light book splayed open in one hand and the other making a series of gestures. His lips and jaws moved in slow and careful ways, suggesting he was uttering another alien chant, yet Clair could only hear a faint and near indistinguishable whisper at best as the captain spoke too quietly.

He proceeded like this for a dozen minutes or so, slowly walking clockwise around the circle, stopping at each candle and repeating the same set of gestures and silent hymns. In addition to beholding the eerie sight of the night bordered light play over Tuuk's stiff, silent form—giving the young sailor the look of a badly aged necromancer as the shadows greatly emphasized the negligible lines in his cold face—Clair also noticed that Tuuk was wearing all black, and a polished silver amulet dangling from his neck by a thin chain. Even from a distance, she could tell the talisman mirrored the shape of the circle. Casually, she wondered what would happen after Tuuk's ritual, whether the outcome was born of success or failure. Would one of the Elder Gods take notice and come to guard The _Furtive Siren_ like a mother protecting it's babe? Or would there manifest a tangible shield keeping in place intangible concepts? Or an intangible shield keeping out tangible things? What if Tuuk fails? What would it be like to be completely deprived of time and space? A somewhat humorous image flashed in her mind; an image of _The Furtive Siren_ and her four occupants being frozen in place in mid action, like the silly games children in Ulthar used to play that involved participants stopping and ceasing to move during whatever it was that they happened to be doing. Then it dawned on her that she would be frozen like that for eternity. That is, if eternity applies to a domain where there is no time. But there is no matter or energy Beyond the Edge either, meaning that the ship and the people will abruptly cease to exist in the void. Unsettled at the notion, she contemplated if vanishing at the drop of a hat would be anything like dying in the material world. Worse? Better, maybe?

Having completed his litany at each of the five candlesticks—which, oddly, appeared to have grown brighter upon their respective completions—Tuuk moved to the Elder Sign's center and kneeled over the eye-like design thereon, taking care to place his legs so they wouldn't disturb the lines of salt. Clair watched in sudden fascination as the captain-cum-wizard drew an elaborately decorated, gilded ceremonial knife from his coat while droning "Iä. Orryx. Nak'tkl mui nyfh'tha Savty'ya sy'l Glyu-Vho. Iä."

After a pause, during which Tuuk sat motionless in meditation, he closed his book and gingerly set it outside the circle as if it were a sacred object in it's own right. Clair grimaced, knowing what was to come next, when when she watched Tuuk put the knife's edge to his palm and tightly wrapped his fingers around the steel blade that blazed a flickering orange in the candlelight. He moved that hand so that it hovered over the Sign's eye while the other hand remained locked on the knife's handle. He resumed his chanting, his body slightly swaying to the rhythm. He concluded with a withdrawn "Iä" that croaked out of his throat like the buzz of an insect. Then, he very abruptly pulled the blade from his fist, dragging the edge across his creased palm and liberating a cascade of blood from his body. At the pain, Tuuk only winced in the slightest while Clair averted her eyes so she wouldn't have to watch the sight of Tuuk cleaving himself. Even after watching a d'hole burn, seeing her feline friend impaled, and swiping a scroll from a still standing mummy, she still found the sight of a man's free flowing blood startling.

Tuuk intoned his chant again as a thin stream of glistening crimson dripped from beneath his curled fingers and splashed over the pupil of the Elder Sign. When the blood flow began to slow, he squeezed his first tighter and drug his nails across the fresh slit to force out more. He continued to let himself until he finished his incantation, which he concluded by tilting his face towards the moonless sky and howling into the night "N'gl'nver Hfl gho-dsa! Na'tl Orryx sy'l Glyu-Vho!"

Upon the utterance of the last syllable, the blood puddle in the Elder Sign's center suddenly burst into glaring, white and purple flames sending Tuuk jumping to his feet and backing out if the circle in two hasty bounds. Clair also stood to get a better look at the ethereal blaze, and both her and the captain stared in stark fascination as the pool of light burned like a little campfire from Heaven.

She almost considered asking Tuuk what it was, but reframed for fear of spoiling the moment. However, Tuuk did give her a passing glance and an awkward smile teeming with wonder and bafflement, suggesting that he knew just as much about the anomaly as she did. Soon, the fire began slowly spreading along the lines of the circle, tracing the Elder Sign's design in twisting, dancing flames of interlocked hues of violet and white. Within minutes, the entire circle was on fire. The flames ensnared and engulfed the five candles, and reduced them to evaporating puddles of boiling wax in under a second. Seeing this instantaneous destruction, Clair took several steps back, wondering how in the nine Hells the entire ship had not been swallowed into a beautiful fireball.

She took a few steps forward, eyes watering and itchy from the near blinding radiance, and noted that she could feel no absolutely heat.

"Tuuk…wha…what is this?" She finally found the ability to ask across the pool of light, despite knowing that Tuuk was as clueless as herself.

She heard Tuuk make a dumbfounded sound, then he said "I don't know. I just hope it's a good thing that this…"

Cutting the captain off at mid sentence, the light rapidly imploded in on itself, shrinking into nothingness as the divine fire flickered out of existence in half a heartbeat. Neither the girl nor the man could see any immediate sign of the fire ever being present, but still they both stood shocked and paralyzed in awe. The ship was once again under the cover the of night. Nothing to be seen but stars and the vague cutout of the masts and sails against the sky.

"You okay, kid?" Tuuk's disembodied voice asked, accompanied by the sounds of his approaching footsteps.

"Yeah. I'm fine." Clair assured. "Did the spell work? Are we protected?"

"Uh…I can't be sure. That fire…there…" Despite being unable to see, Clair fancied the captain casting a half scared, half denying look at the spent Elder Sign circle, like someone who just watched a cat walk on it's hind legs like a man. "Those colors, and the heatlessness and all. That's characteristic to Orryx, but I guess it could've been a perfectly normal albeit trippy fire that we've miraculously managed to survive."

"I don't think that was a normal fire."

"Good to know."

From the other side of the deck, a beam of white light flashed into existence and cut through the darkness, forcing Clair to start. For a brief second, Clair convinced herself the weird fire had inexplicably returned, but breathed easily once she saw it was only Johnny, walking towards them with the guide of a flashlight similar to the one Carter used. "Da fuck was that?" He gasped.

"We were having a barbecue, dawg! What of it?" Tuuk jested as he moved to make himself visible in the flashlights beam.

"I'm serious, man! I thought the ship was burning down."

"No. That was the shield going up, I think."

"Never done that before." Johnny swung the beam around to where the circle had been and approached it. "No damage. But what the fuck, man? I thought you put on the Elder Sign, not…not that!" Johnny complained pointing into the blackened remains of the circle.

Tuuk followed his shipmates line of sight and looked astonished. He shook his head. "I did, but…whatever. I'm not gonna try and figure this out."

While the two men conversed, Clair skulked over to the circle, curious as to what had the the sailors so concerned. At first glance, she thought nothing changed save for the lines of white powder being replaced by thin lines of charred wood, contours engrained into the deck in a way that seemed almost identical to the Elder Sign. Then she realized she was wrong. The circle on the floor had changed from the comforting sigil of the Elder Gods into a more ominous shape. The star's arms were straightened and radiated outwards as the arms of a typical star shape do. The eye in the center was replaced by a convoluted design that she, at first, took to be nothing more than meaningless damage, but then she realized that it was some kind of glyph. Even the whole shape seemed to have turned one hundred and eighty degrees to where one spear-like arm pointed at Clair's feet at the Southern side of the circle while the two opposites pointed Northward at the ever expanding Edge like a pair of horns on a goat about to charge at its nemesis.

"It's like a Satanic pentagram." Tuuk stated as he walked it's circumference, examining the new symbol permanently stamped on his boat.

"I've seen this before." Clair asserted, remembering the bloody flags she seen in her Celephaïs nightmare. "In a dream, but I didn't know what it meant. What do you think this means for us? Is this an omen?"

"Hell if I know. It's fucking spooky, I'll say that much." Then, almost like being snapped out of a trance, Tuuk seemed to sober up and quickly turned his wide eyed attention to the North. After remaining silent for a few seconds he asked "You hear that?"

"The cataracts." Johnny said, starting off. "I'll go tell Dahlia about this."

Clair listened, and heard what she suspected the others were hearing. The sounds of a distant waterfall were fast approaching, growing loader by the second. It was like listening to the waterfalls that streamed from the undercarriage of Serannian all over again, but this was not wonderful, but rather terror inducing. The implications the orchestra of liquid roaring were clear: _The Furtive Siren_ was nearing the Edge and would soon cross the threshold into the inhospitable void and set coarse for Leng or pass over into absolute void, forever ceasing to exist.

"Get back under deck and hold onto something." Tuuk commanded, giving the Edge another worried glare. "All we can do now is wait and hope."

And so she spent the next few minutes—which seemed to have crawled along in the span of hours—waiting and hoping in the cargo hold, sitting behind a support pillar and keeping her distance from the black disk of the nighted porthole for fear of what she may see through it, be it instantaneous destruction or the ethereal daemons Tuuk spoke of. The anxiety that had been growing in her ever since she stepped out the door of her distant home sharply increased to heights she previously thought were impossible. The clawing fear inside her mind began giving her a sick feeling. Every organ in her churned and she couldn't abate the illusionary need to vomit. Her hand rested over her throat, feeling the blood pulse under her skin and the trembling of her larynx. Her heart throbbed so fast she was afraid she'd die of cardiac arrest. Every limb seized and locked into place, refusing to move even when she tried.

Even with the looming uncertainty of surviving the threshold, all she could think about was Leng and the monstrous mountain that brooded thereon.

She almost screamed when _The Furtive Siren_ violently shook, sending many of the crates in the hold toppling, as the cataracts outside became more furious. Aside from the disturbing groans of the metal and wood hull under pressure, the roar of countless tons of water assaulting the ship was the only sound to be heard. Soon, the ship began swaying and tilting so steeply she couldn't even stay on her ass without having to keep her arms around the pillar. Crates and barrels fell and crashed into one another, even breaking apart as they struck the inner sides of the hull. One cask fell free from it's straps and rolled across the floor until it happened to cross paths with a falling crate half the size of a carriage. The barrel was crushed to pieces as easily as an egg under a heel when the crate landed square on top of it, forcing out a flood of crystalline vodka that filled the air with the pungent odor of alcohol.

Against her better judgement and probably driven by her own mad audacity, she stood and made for the outside deck. However, she found that staying on her feet was nearly impossible. The moment she arose, she was instantly sent staggering by the unceasing rocking and collided with a nearby crate. She righted herself quickly, but only to be tossed again and then again. Upon the fifth time of being knocked down, she found it useless to walk upright, so she resolved to crawl to the ladder leading to the upper deck since she seemed condemned to stay on her hands and knees anyways. Even while crawling she discovered that staying upright was strenuous, for with every lurch her torso would sway to one side or the other and her balance would waver. Eventually, though, she made it to the ladder and ascended with relative ease.

She found a veil of absolute darkness where the deck would ordinarily be, accompanied still by the roar of the unholy cataracts. Not even the vague impressions of the masts were on the sky, no matter hard she strained her eyes to see. She shivered and momentarily considered crawling back inside when she found the surrounding black unnervingly reminiscent of the Underworld. Yet she chose to continue when another strong jerk forced her to stumble forward and collapse face first on the wooden deck. The splinters on her nose were uncomfortable, but it let her know that she was still in the material world and that she was still alive. She chuckled to herself in a very short lived burst of happiness.

Still barely able to stand, she instead rolled over on her back and caught full sight of the receding sky. Far behind the ship, she could see the constellations dwindling as they grew further away like Celephaïs shrinking in the distance. She watched the black of the night sky slowly being consumed by the infinitely deeper black of the Edge and she couldn't help but back up a few paces, as if she was watching the ruthless execution of the sane world.

"My gods…" She gasped in heart freezing fear, knowing that _The Furtive Siren_ was now in the act of crossing over. "My gods. No. No."

"Clair!" Tuuk's voice shook the darkness. At almost the same instance, a flashlight beam erupted from nearby and engulfed her (the glare of light was more than welcomed). "Clair, what the fuck?! I told you to stay in the goddam hold!"

Shielding her eyes from the light, she could only barely make out Tuuk's face beyond the glare. The glow made his agitated features visible as he gave the girl a disapproving look. "What are you doing?" He asked, trying to keep his balance in the swaying.

"I…"

"You know what? Screw it." He pointed at the hatch from which Clair emerged. "Get back in the hold, now. I don't…"

"Shut up! I need to see this!" She had let her buried brazenness out again, much to her shock.

"You mean see the…" Tuuk stilled his tongue when an ungodly loud, high pitched whine rang out through the ship, nearly deafening both of them. It was not unlike the cry of child, but much more high pitched and continued to rise to ear busting levels. Clair winced and crushed her palms to her ears, and though Tuuk did the same (she could barely tell in the dark, but could tell nonetheless), he seemed much less surprised. Then an amber, fire-like glow began slowly coming to life around the sides of _The Furtive Siren_ , rhythmically pulsing with a deliberate pattern and banishing the darkness over the deck, but not the darkness of the environment nor the sky.

"What's happening?!" Clair tried to yell, but since she could only tell she said anything at all by the undulating in her throat, she knew Tuuk couldn't hear her. Nonetheless, he responded.

He pointed at the bridge where Dahlia was currently manning the wheel and slowly mouthed "The engines started."

Then the ship's seemingly incessant rocking abruptly ceased with a sudden trembling, yet Clair still found it hard to stand. Feeling a downward force working on her, like a massive hand forcing her to the floor, she deduced that the ship was steadily rising out of the waves, tilting back but the slightest to direct it's sharply tapered bow at the conceptually nonexistent sky like a bird pointing it's beak as it takes flight. The whine of the engines continued to rise until it became virtually inaudible, allowing Clair let her hands down. Still, the ringing in her ears persisted.

She looked back again and felt her heart drop. The last vestiges of the star littered sky dwindled to a point, eventually vanishing altogether. She saw the faint stirring in the dark and somehow knew that that was the ocean falling away into the abyss. That too receded to nothing.

"We…we've crossed over, didn't we?" Clair stuttered, coming to terms with where they now sailed. "We're in…we're in the…"

"We're outside." He finished with a triumphant grin. "Ha ha! We did it! Hot-diggity-damn! We fucking did it! The spell worked! We're alive." He threw a fist into the air and laughed like a joy stricken reveler. He then turned to Clair and showed her a single palm as if signaling her to stop.

Rising to her feet, she only paid the man a baffled look, not knowing what this gesture was supposed to mean.

"No?" He asked. "You're gonna leave me hanging?"

"I don't know what the hell you're doing."

"It's a high five. You don't do high fives in Ulthar?"

She shook her head, maintaining a stern face.

"All you gotta do is slap my hand with your hand…"

"Why?"

"Cause…it's like a celebration thing."

Looking like a fool, Tuuk still kept his hand in the air, undoubtedly expecting Clair to come around and return his gesture. She thought for a moment to stare him down and beam him the clue that she wasn't going to oblige, but she considered the fact that this was a small victory, if for no one else then for him alone. Why be rude now?

Seeing the apparently harmless man so happy brought an unexpected smile to her face. She joked "First your an ass, then you're a fool, then a wizard, and now you're back to a fool?"

Dropping his hand, he laughed. "Maybe I'll go back to being an ass. Or do something really unexpected and become an alligator."

Her smile widened. With a shake of her head she put her hand up to mimic Tuuk's gesture, inviting the man's "high five".

"Attagirl!" He exclaimed and slapped her on the palm. The oddly friendly sound of their hands impacting each other was followed by the shared laughter of the burly captain and the girl from Ulthar.

 


	22. Black Snow

I'll see you away to the Black if you insist,  
But I need you to know that you won't be missed.  
—Unknown

 

 

 

 

She leaned against the ship's railing, her arms crossed over the wood border between the ship and the void, her emerald eyes ceaselessly skimming the environment of absolute nothing. Clair savored the moment. Even if the darkness was deeply unsettling, it was somewhat wondrous. How many people have ever had the chance to sail, not just on an ocean, but in the black infinity outside of space and time? During her youth she would often look up at the night sky—admiring the bi-yearly blue moon, the planets Heresta and Galmonot, the constellations of Lomar-Kith and Sister Ilethriam, the the cyan comets of Kura, and all the other vibrant celestial gems—and think "How infinite is the sky? When I see the black veil behind the stars, what kind of heavenly mysteries am I being allowed glimpses of?" Now she thinks she has her answer, yet all there is to see is more darkness. However, the ever present feeling of the infinite was still there, but now, without stars and planets to clutter the sky, she remembered just how small she was; nothing more than a mote of dust in a sea. Her head swam just thinking about that. Fondly, she recalled her doing the same thing only a couple days ago, loitering and thinking and watching and feeling small. Only then she had the morning veiled Cerenarian and a curious, persistent albatross to look at, not this oppressive black screen.

Tuuk, Dahlia, and Johnny were occupied with their respective tasks in keeping the ship on coarse. Dahlia was in the bridge, Tuuk navigated, and Johnny was maintaining the engines on the third deck. Some time after crossing over, Tuuk explained the basic mechanics of _The Furtive Siren_ 's engines upon Clair's inquiry. She regretted asking. Tuuk's "basic" explanation was anything but. She didn't understand anything the captain spoke of. She recollected mentions of "thermo nuclear" somethings, the extension of the fabric of space, and a lot of fire. That was probably the only word he uttered that had any meaning to her. Fire. All in all, she understood that there was a mass of machinery beneath the ship that spat out a potentially never ending explosion that allowed the ship to cruise through the aether. Those explosions, bursting through orifices in the ship's flanks, was the source of the amber light that kept the darkness from drowning _The Furtive Siren_. The rays, like an azure wall or field rising along every side of the ship, illuminated the motionless sails, emphasizing the myriad of folds, while much of the deck remained in shadow, in places looking like a solid pool of night. In fact most of the shipped looked this way; half shaded in the light of the pulsing, almost living fire that kept the ship aloft and the other half left in cold shadow, perfectly merging with the the abyss. The result of this mix of light and dark made the ship and everything thereon look incomplete. It was still a wonder that the abyss itself didn't yield to this light and remained the unmarred curtain it has been for the last…What?…Two? Four days? Maybe six? Without the sun or stars to help gauge the passing of time, a week might as well have been a century.

She closed her eyes, feeling the presence of yet another Outsider as it glided past the ship with total indifference. Only when their innumerable members or amorphous bulk happened to rub against the invisible Elder shield did they ever seem to pay any attention to _The Furtive Siren_. For them, so Clair thought, making contact with the shield must have been like an organism touching fire.

The Outsiders were invisible, but only to her material eyes. To her mind's eye, they were constantly lurking within "sight", going hither and thither like a flock of birds. All she had to do was close her eyes and, somehow, a pristine if not slightly obscured image of the creatures would manifest behind her eyelids, along with the ship. How that was possible, she couldn't tell, but she knew that what she was seeing in her head were true vestiges of the Outsiders for their unwholesome and, frankly, impossible forms. They appeared to her in ways she could never fabricate in her own imagination. Not even Lich-Daemon's visage, though horrifying, wasn't as dizzying as the Outside creatures. The way their angles and curves laced together, the way their geometry shifted through the ocean-like abyss was impossible to describe. All she could say was that every little movement those things made conveyed some kind of contradiction.

At first, they disturbed her quite a bit, almost to the point where she considered fleeing under deck just to avoid having to look at them, but the more she watched them "swim" fish-like by the ship—noting their absolute passiveness—the more comfortable she became in becoming a spectator and with that, her badly accumulated apprehension started to retreat. Not dissipate, only retreat. She did remember what Tuuk said about the Outsiders being sporadic and possessing the capability to attack the ship at any moment for any reason, but the shield has already proven its durability. They weren't pretty, but they were still unlike anything she has ever seen before. Some looked like massive jellyfish, but scalloped and donning a cluster of iridescent tendrils at the crown of their dome-like bodies. Although, due to their inconsistency of form, these clusters had a tendency to shift beneath the dome's surface and end up protruding from between the many jointed legs that served as substitutes for a regular jellyfish's tentacles.

Some outsiders looked like strange crosses between serpents and whales, and it was one of these that happened to be passing overhead at the moment. It's body seemed to go on forever in either direction when she ran her gaze down it's length. No head and no tail; just a ribbed, lopsided, and convulsing mass that tapered to nothingness as it's coils ran infinitely into the directions that would have otherwise been considered Northeast and Southwest. Along it's sides (which seemed to have been three for when it adapted a vaguely triangular shape or six when those sides sharply and kaleidoscopically collapsed towards the thing's spine) ran a spiraling line of appendages covered in some kind of gloss of an unknown array of colors (these colors, with their alienness, were one of the most disturbing quality these creatures had). Clair couldn't determine if they were fins, wings, tentacles, or any thing else she might have been familiar with, mainly because their shapes changed so often.

She opened her eyes, banishing the sight of the swarms of Outsiders and seeing the fire lit sails. Tuuk, at some point during her meditation, had moved to the front of the ship and stood in solitude, staring past the the ship's nose into the darkness that would have been North if they were sailing within the universe. He didn't seem to be in any deep thought, but rather, just standing idly, quietly humming an old sailor's tune. Every so often he would shut his eyes and move his head about as if examining the nonexistent sky. It was clear he knew how to see the Outsiders as well.

One again, she closed her own eyes and saw that the serpentine thing was still swaying above _The Furtive Siren_ , slowly flapping it's ambiguous members as if they were wings. Off the starboard side, she saw another Outsider darting around like some kind of maddened fly. This one—at first glance at least—appeared somewhat anthropoid. There appeared to be two legs and about three arms, but when she looked again it looked as if the arms were the legs and the legs were the arms, now innumerable and flailing like dying snakes underneath misty wings. She guessed there was a head, but all she could definitively see was a pulsing mass from which gazed star-like orbs that burned the same unidentifiable color as the serpent's appendages. And like the serpent, it paid no heed to the ship. It just beat it's way through the abyss and vanished in the distance. Following closely behind that was…

She couldn't tell. Whatever it was, it wasn't even clear whether or not it was a singular being or a cluster. When it passed by, it stared at _The Furtive Siren_ (Or so she thought. There were no eyes. Just the weird impression) in apparent contempt and let out a cacophony of disgusting noises as if it were screaming profanities at the visitors. This was the only Outsider to which she gave a cringe.

Without warning, the shapeless creatures surrounding the ship vanished in an instant, either fading into the surrounding black like a rock sinking underwater or zipping away like frightened rodents. In a third of a second, they were all gone and left only the surrounding pitch that would ordinarily accompany the inside of her eyelids. At that same instant, the ship lurched and vibrated, not nearly as bad as it did when it entered the abyss, but certainly enough to warrant concern. Even as she opened her eyes, she knew _The Furtive Siren_ had crossed over into the real world again from the oppressive weight of gravity and the biting cold of violently disturbed air as it pooled in her lungs and ruffled her coat. The suddenly alien sound of the roaring engines mingled with the cries of torrential wind as it gripped the wood and metal mass of the ship. After spending an indefinite amount of time in the void, the tell-tale signs of time and matter were not only familiar but dawned on her like a lead weight. The feeling was not unlike waking up after a surreal dream.

The new sky was bland and almost colorless. Aside from varying hues of gray and black that brought shape to the thick and copious layers of clouds, the only colors to be seen where the burning lights of red, orange, and green stars that peeked through the atmosphere every time the violently churning cloud-layers would open up and grant Clair an obstructed view of the firmament. Even when seeing three or four stars at a time, she could tell that the sky above her now was not the night sky she grew up seeing. The stars were too large, of course, but aside from that it was difficult to tell what was so extremely different about it. She had the overbearing feeling that the night sky of Leng and it's strange stars were—dare she say—real. More real than anything she's experienced prior.

After giving the bleakly painted heavens another look over, she finally resolved to look down.

Upon seeing the landscape that stretched beneath _The Furtive Siren_ 's blazing belly, her heart sank, her breath stilled, her eyes dilated, and her fist tightly clutched the railing. She recalled seeing the grimly fabricated landscape painting in Carter's living room and the terrifying nightmare that followed not long after. The ashen gray dust. The jagged stones and bones strewn across the flat, ever expanding plateau. The scarce, petrified corpses of trees. The omnipotent and skin numbing chill that filled the atmosphere. The black mountains protruding from the horizon like rotted teeth. And of coarse, the single, titanic mount that rose from the surrounding desolation—piercing the black sky like a demonic weapon—that could have only been her ultimate destination.

Below her was the corpse land of Leng. And beyond that was the dark city of the gods: Kadath.

The ship tilted forward and then leftward as it began its descent, forcing Clair to hold tighter to the railing. The engines whined liked a swarm banshees, and the torrent of heat therefrom dispersed the freezing winds. She thought for the briefest of moments that _The Furtive Siren_ couldn't remain aloft in these conditions but was quickly proven wrong seeing that the ship hadn't hit the ground yet.

Unable to take the sharp movements of the craft making a one-eighty U-turn, Clair crouched on Her haunches, wrapping one arm and a hand tight around the rail's pillars. Everything vibrated as the engines continued to roar, and unfortunately that included even her gut. She had to fight the urge to vomit and the heat pulsing out of the pillars of fire that spewed out of the hull didn't help at all. A quick glance over at Tuuk told her that the captain was largely unaffected. He stood ramrod straight—albeit occasionally stumbling but quickly righting himself—with fists clutching the bow railing. Before the ship's nose was directed back in the direction of the Edge, Clair caught the man gazing at the black obstruction in the North that was Kadath, eyes wide and color completely flushed from his cheeks. He remained locked on the titanic mountain for as long as it remained within sight, and then bowed his head as if grieving when the ship had completely turned, relieving his field of vision of the mount.

 _The Furtive Siren_ hovered for a few seconds, then began to gently lower its bulk. She could see over the side the engine fire assaulting the gray sand below, the hot winds sending massive plumes of it skyward until it almost completely blocked out the sights of Leng, Kadath, and the Edge. She shut her eyes and held her breath while waving one free arm to disperse the onslaught of warm dust that blanketed her. When the ship finally settled in it's place, the roar of the engine and the storm of fire slowed and eventually died down, allowing the silence and the omnipotent cold of Leng to creep back over her.

Feeling the last of the grainy flurries tap the crown of her head, she rose to a standing position and breathed again, tasting the scarce residue of dust on her tongue.

Moments later, Dahlia and Johnny emerged on deck from their respective posts. The woman, until Tuuk addressed them, looked at the alien landscape in awe while the Pargian seemed more preoccupied with wiping away the sweat that glistened on his bare chest and forehead. From that, Clair could tell just how blistering it was in the engine room, so it was no wonder Johnny seemed comfortable in the freezing air.

"Hey, Clair," she stiffened when Tuuk called her name. "You think you can help Dahlia unload the gangplank?"

She nodded, though almost dreading having to work with Dahlia after all she has said the other night. Clair didn't know nor had any interest now in saying who was at fault then, but nonetheless tension was created and she had the sick feeling it had not dissipated yet. "Of course."

"I would do it myself," the captain continued. "But I have to check the one-hundred-and-thirty-three gauges this thing has"—he emphasized by tapping _The Furtive Siren_ 's deck with the toe if his boot—"and Johnny over here is looking like shit, so he needs to take five."

"Naw, man. I'm good." Johnny assured, panting and wringing out his sweat stained towel.

"Well. If I wasn't requesting out of brotherly concern, then it's out of fear for dying from your B.O. I almost regret not putting a shower on this ship." Tuuk grinned. "Seriously, dude. You stink. Go somewhere else and slap on some deodorant."

Johnny shook his head and returned the captain's harmless grin, adding his middle finger to the offering. He rose, stretched, and lumbered into the cabin with Tuuk following closely behind, leaving the two females to their task. Dahlia blankly looked at Clair, and the Ultharian passively did likewise. Little time passed before Dahlia gave a slight nod and said "Let's get to work."

It wasn't a two person task. All there was to do was bolt a collapsible, metal ramp to the edge of the ship, which Dahlia easily accomplished within a matter of a few minutes, maybe twenty at the most. Clair only assisted in keeping the ramp stable during an icy gust as Dahlia locked the folding joints. Done with their job, they both decided to loaf around until Tuuk bid them to do otherwise.

They both silently sat side by side on railing, backsides hanging over the deck and feet dangling over the heavily disturbed dirt that was frequently blown against the port side with each bout of wind. Dahlia couldn't have been more casual in the would be dangers of sitting on the edge of the ship, almost twenty feet over the ground. Whilst her slim fingers idly drummed the wooden beams which she loosely clasped, her pale face skimmed the dark expanses, eyes very clearly beaming curiosity as they moved from one unnatural looking rock formation to another. Clair, however, was tense. Why she thought it a good idea to follow Dahlia's suit and sit on the edge of a drop-off, she had no clue (It was at this point, she had realized that she had no clue why she did a lot of things during the course of her journey), but regardless she found herself sitting there with every muscle in her locked and fingers dug into the wood railing in an attempt to keep from falling over the ship's side. She thought about directing her mind towards something else—like the sky—but found it difficult to concentrate on any one thing.

Among the storm of anxiety, she found herself thinking about the woman sitting next to her. Clair didn't think she held any true hatred towards Dahlia (or at least hoped so) for her somewhat inconsiderate words the other night, and she wished the feelings were mutual on Dahlia's part. Clair deeply considered that these three sailors—Tuuk, Dahlia, and Johnny—would be the last human beings she would ever see, so if she would die in Leng or Kadath, she didn't want one of the last things she said to them to be a foul-mouthed tongue lashing. Examining Dahlia's casual countenance, Clair found that the woman showed no sign of resentment. Clair considered that maybe she was just good at burying her feelings and silently hating, but then Dahlia asked the Ultharian something that someone hiding contempt wouldn't ordinarily ask:

"You doing all right, Clair?"

And with that, Clair's worries where abated. "Yeah." She answered with a smile that, shamefully, felt faked. "I'm okay."

Dahlia returned the smile and said "Good. You just look so eaten up, I was kinda worried." She looked away from Clair and back to the sky, staring at a dimly glowing, bluish star directly overhead. "The stars are beautiful around these parts, eh?"

"Yeah."

"Those mountains are ugly as fuck though…"

"Dahlia?" Clair didn't know what compelled her to ask what she asked next. She's done many things in the past months that she's lived to regret, and this will probably be one of them. "Are you…are you mad about the other night?" She couldn't look the woman in the eye's.

Dahlia gave the girl a blank look, which did nothing to make Clair any more comfortable. "What do you mean?" She asked. Then memory dawned on her, evident by the enlightened look on her face. "Oh! That. Why the hell would I be mad about that?"

"I was wrong." She didn't like saying that for the third time in the past month, but it was true.

Dahlia sighed and patted one of Clair's tightly clasped fist, the one closest to her. "I'm not gonna lie, kid. I don't think the gods exist, and I don't think I ever will. I only ever believed in one, and I think he's dead and gone for good." For some reason Clair recalled the image of the crucified man etched onto the mummy's pennant in the Tanarians. "And sure, I might believe you're a little crazy, but we both know that doesn't mean you are. Johnny has his gods and Tuuk has his, and they both mention them every day, be it praises or stating something about Nodens or Ner'gel'thutol that they think is fact. So, basically, I'm reminded on a regular basis that everyone believes that the Elder Gods and the Other Gods all exist and have a very real influence over this world. Maybe I'm the one trapped in some kind of delusional bubble of ignorance, or something."

"I see what your saying. But that doesn't excuse what I've done."

"Look. I don't mean to get graphic here, but if I woke up one morning hearing the voices of some evil creature in my noggin, telling me to leave home and go…" Dahlia nodded at the hideous mountain that brooded in the shadowed North. "…I would have already sent a bullet through my brain. Something like that would have shattered everything I considered normal, and this is coming from a girl who was told from birth that there is only one God who created everything and loved mankind because we were supposed to be the top dawgs of the universe, second only to said God. I've always had difficulty seeing the world in any other light, so when I heard your story, I heard either one of two things: a tale that can't happen because it involves a god that can't possibly exist, or proof that everything I ever believed in was a lie. The latter, now that I think about it, is the only one of the two that makes any sense. I think I was in denial. I was trying assure myself that I was still living in Everything's-Okay-Land. I didn't mean to call you a liar."

"It's okay. When you say it that way, it makes actually sense. I would have done the exact same thing if I were in your shoes." Clair said. "But to be honest, I've kind of wondered if I was going insane, or that all the nightmares and Nyarlathotep and all were just symptoms of delirium. I can't exactly elaborate, but I feel as if everything that's happened since I left home…" After trying to dredge up heavily obscured memories of home and failing, she added "—Actually, everything in my life—is just…None of it feels real now. Not anymore. Even Willow…"

"That was your cat, right?"

"Yeah. Even Willow just feels like some forgotten dream I had a long time ago. I love him. I don't think that will ever change, but every single memory I've ever had with him…I…" Clair shook her head, half grimacing and half smiling. "I'm sorry. I'm rabbling."

"No, it's okay." Dahlia assured, gingerly placing a hand on Clair's shoulder. "You need to vent these things. What about Willow?"

"I can't pin down any of his memories. Few of them remain, but the ones that I can still recall—and they happen to be the most distressing ones—are literally blurring together. Like they're all becoming one, very horrible moment in time."

"I'm so sorry this happening to you. I wish I could do something to help."

"Thank you. I just can't wait for this to be over." She sighed. "It's probably about time I leave isn't it?"

"We could probably take you back home…" Dahlia offered, but trailed off.

"That's not an option. It never was. For my own sake, I have to believe Nyarlethotep is really calling me. I have to do this because Willow died to get me to this point. Putting aside the fact that Nyarlathotep will hunt me down if I back down now, I would be insulting Willow's sacrifice if I give up, especially since I'm so close. I have to go on."

"Then we'll come with you."

In astonishment, Clair's eyes widened and her head perked up to fully meet Dahlia's gaze. "You mean to Kadath?"

She nodded, face straight but eyes comforting. "Yeah. I'll have your back."

Clair was left speechless and almost unable to understand the reason behind her offer. Carter offered the same thing, but that was because Nyarlathotep was influencing his decision, which made Clair consider if the same circumstances were at play here. She wanted to ask Dahlia if she had been visited by any mental voices telling her to become a chaperone, but thought that would be too alarming. Dahlia, however, asserted that she still didn't believe in the gods, so if she was visited, she's responding in an unrealistically calm way.

Clair considered that, despite their brief quarrel, Dahlia would actually go the lengths to accompany her simply because she didn't want the Ultharian to get hurt or die. That warmed her on the inside, bringing an insuppressible smile to her lips and a trace of rose to her cheeks. Knowing how wrong she was on judging Dahlia, Clair really did start to feel like shit. She didn't know how to articulate her appreciation, but before she could attempt, a new voice broke the silence. "What?"

Clair started, turning to see it was Tuuk, approaching and taking his place at Dahlia's other side, a baffled frown creasing his face. He continued, "Did I hear that right? You want to leave us?"

"Yeah. Is there a problem?" Dahlia growled, sliding off the railing to meet the captain head on.

"Uh, yeah, there's definitely a problem. I need you on the ship. It takes three people to sail this thing, and I kinda want to see Celephaïs again. Besides, you go out there…" he pointed out into the wastelands for emphasis. "…and your fucking dead."

"You can sail this ship by yourself if you wanted to! You know that! You don't…"

"You're not going! You don't understand. I can't live knowing that I've allowed, not only one of my sailors, but a friend to die in Yog's blindspot." At this point, Tuuk seemed to realize for the first time that Clair was sitting there. He looked at the concerned girl with a tight lipped face, as if trying to repress the urge to say something exceptionally hurtful. Then, he said "Clair, look, if you want to come back with us, that's fine. I won't be mad. But if you still plan on going to Kadath, you're not dragging one of my own along. Got it? I'm sorry to let go all alone, but…but…" he trailed off.

Clair flinched at his harsh tone. She almost wanted to take offense at the fact that he was so easily willing to leave her stranded and ultimately let her die, but when they first met he made his intentions clear; that he would simply drop her off and leave as soon as possible. Clair didn't blame the man—she never would have wanted to trek Leng either—but still, that did nothing to change the fact that she was foolish in respecting the coward.

As Johnny entered, looking both nervous and confused at his shipmates' argument, Dahlia continued. "It's my decision, Tuuk. If I feel like leaving then I have the right to."

"But your leaving with and for a girl you just met. Out into Leng, mind you, where your chances of survival are nil. I mean, why? Why put your life in danger just for her?" Keeping his eyes on Dahlia, Tuuk leveled a finger at the Ultharian, who was shrinking back.

"So you're okay with ditching Clair here? You gonna live with yourself knowing you just flew off and let a child freeze to death? My mama taught me better than that. If someone is in crisis, you fucking help them!"

"I'm not okay with it, but it's better than leaving _you_ here to die. I've known you for years, Dahlia! For fucking years! I can't live with myself knowing I let you freeze to death."

"Then why not come with me? You and Johnny both? Why can't we just take _The Furtive Siren_ and literally fly across Leng, right up to Kadath?"

"Because the engines will freeze! Hell, the fucking engines are freezing right now! If we stay here any longer, The Furtive Siren will be iced in this very spot. That's why we have to leave! I don't care what the fuck happens, I'll leave her…" Again, pointing at Clair. "…here any day if it means going home."

"You're an asshole!"

Before Tuuk could say anymore, Clair yelled "Stop!". The three adults turned their attention towards the child; two looking curious if not a little concerned, and the third beaming irritation. She took a deep breath, rubber one hand through the bangs over her forehead—left ice-cold in the never ending Lengian winds—and almost considered walking away without another world. Instead, she asserted "Look, I don't need anyone to come with me, okay? I'll be fine. I have reason to believe I'll make it to Kadath alive, so I don't need any of you to help me. Dahlia," she continued, turning to said individual. "I appreciate your concern, especially since it's unwarranted. But Tuuk is right, you can and will die out there and I don't want to be the cause of that. It just doesn't seem fair to put your life on the line for someone you've known for only a few days. If I die…" still addressing Dahlia, she turned to Tuuk, her icy glare making her contempt for him no secret. "If I die, I don't want that to be of any consequence to you. Or your friends."

Composing herself, Dahlia asked "Clair, are you sure? How are you certain you'll make it?"

Clair thought on that. There have been several moments in the recent months where she should have died; in the Underworld, in the Enchanted Woods; in Throk. Yet, wether by divine intervention or by chance, she made it all the way to Leng's edge. If she still believed in intervention for the sake of benevolence, that would have been her claim, yet she didn't. However, she knows now that Nyarlathotep can tamper with events and individuals along her way, or at least to a certain degree. She also knows that Nyarlathotep wants her at Kadath alive, and will most likely do anything to achieve that. Sad to say, but the Crawling Chaos will be her protecter. And the subtle but familiar voice that's been dwelling in the back of her mind confirmed this.

"Because…" Clair said at length, patting the Glock that hung from her waist. To her comfort, she remembered her conversation with Carter "I'm not defenseless. I never was. I no longer scared of dying. To me it makes no difference if cancer kills me at eighty or a spider tears me to shreds at thirteen. Dahlia, I'm glad you were willing to risk your own for me, but if you come with me, you'll be a burden solely because you will die out there, but I won't. Though I won't have a problem leaving you behind…" she paused, realizing she was staring to sound like Tuuk. "I won't have a problem leaving you so long as I have a path to take, but in the aftermath—if there will be one—I wouldn't be able to live knowing I've let you die." She turned to Tuuk, making sure he heard her clearly. By the furrowing of his brows, she assumed so. To Dahlia, she concluded. "Stay here were you're safe and needed. Please."

Dahlia sighed, "If that's your choice, then I'll respect that. I wish you luck, girlfriend."

Head lowered, Clair smiled. It was still beyond belief that the one shipmate she bitched out turned ended up being the most compassionate. Both Dahlia and Carter were almost enough to turn around her ripened cynicism. Almost.

Clair met her eyes again and said "I hope all goes well for you too, Dahlia. And thank you again for being there for me." To Johnny, she said. "And thank you too. You were a pleasure to be around." Then, jokingly, she added "At least when you're high."

The Pargian laughed, "Good knowing you too."

To Tuuk, she gave a condemning glare before saying "You. You're a dick."

Though his own gaze remained icy, Tuuk was obviously trying to suppress some amusement by the way his frown twitched; the corners almost forming a smile before quickly resuming their sour position. He said nothing. Only shrugged.

"But," Clair conceded. "it was still nice knowing you."

Automatically, she checked herself to assure that all her belongings were with her. Carter's aromatic coat was fastened about her torso, her satchel full of matches, star-stones, food reserves, and water canteens (the liquid sloshing sound from within was appropriately reassuring) slung across her shoulders, and her two weapons—Father's knife and Carter's Glock—were strapped to her belt. With a final, silent look at the three sailors who ferried her across the void, she padded down the gangplank, still believing that they were to be the last human beings she's to ever know. She quickly descended to the unwelcoming gray earth below, not in eagerness, but to end the painful instance of passing from a place that could feasibly be considered home to the inhospitable hell she had been destined for as quickly as possible. Her body trembled with each metallic clank that reverberated under her heels as they struck the plank. Now far enough away from the freshly warmed surface of _The Furtive Siren_ , she could feel just how cold the Lengian gales were. Her cheeks instantly numbed and eyes watered, the resulting tears becoming like tiny shards of ice in the wind. Shutting her eyelids to relieve her self of the cold burn—even for a second—she drew her hood over her wildly flailing locks and wrapped her arms tightly across her chest.

Suddenly, the metal echo of the gangplank gave way to dry thumping as she took her first steps onto the frozen wastelands of the North. She wanted to stop and turn away, beg Tuuk to just send her back to Celephaïs. She wanted to pray to Nodens to forgive whatever trespass she might of committed and hope the Hunter will defend her from Nyarlathotep's inevitable wrath.

But she knew better. The Crawling Chaos will haunt her for shying away, the Elder Gods will continue to neglect her, and Willow's memory and sacrifice will not only be in vain, but will be utterly desecrated. And so she continued. She speed-walked, keeping her emerald gaze locked on the shimmering plumes of dust that rose in succession with each hasty footfall. She tried her damnedest to ignore the freezing winds that assaulted her, but no matter what it snuck through every gap in her clothing and bit at every square centimeter of her skin. She wanted to fear hyperthermia—for it would have been such a normal, mortal thing to fret over—but as she stared forward at the nightmarishly gargantuan mound of black that was Kadath, hyperthermia was the last thing she could think of.

The familiar roar of _The Furtive Siren'_ s engines annihilated the silence and the resulting explosion of heat temporarily held the bitter air at bay. Before her, her shadow was thrown across the flat ground, a slender pillar of black against the thrumming miasma of orange. Clair turned to see that she had already walked well over a hundred meters away from _The Furtive Siren_ , which was in the act of rising off the ground, lifted by by a glaring mass of white-glowing fire that forced thick plumes of dirt and rocks in every direction, not excluding her own. For only the slightest of seconds—in the interval where she could see past the the dust and blinding brilliance—she was actually captivated by the beauty of the ship as it ascended on a wave of fire. The way the flames reflected on the slender, curving sides of the white-and-green hull and the way the sails fluttered like alien wings made The Furtive Siren look like a blazing ethereal entity, lacking the fascinating bizarreness of the Outsiders, but just as beautiful as they were hideous.

With a brief scream from the thrusters and a briefer flash of fresh fire, _The Furtive Siren_ and it's occupants dove into the darkness and vanished. Not a trace of light nor heat nor sound lingered to tell of its short lived presence.

Clair stared after it for a little longer before moving to continue on her path to Kadath. After all that's happened, after all she's seen and learned and lost, she finally embarked on the final mile of her quest.

Only half believing, she whispered "I've survived. I will survive longer." as she took in the oppressive grandeur of The Dark City of the Gods and the surrounding mountains. "For Willow."


	23. A Visit

As always, the ticking of the coffin-shaped Yaddithian time-machine filled the room, emphasized by the utter lack of any other sound. Until it snuffed itself out half an hour ago, a fire burned in the fireplace for a awhile, filling the cluttered living room in which Randolph Carter sat with a soothing, warm atmosphere, the gentle light making the myriad of oddities he had accumulated over the centuries glow. The heat was also pleasant; almost as much as the quiet crackling of dying embers. The heat from a lit fire was perhaps one of the few things that brought him any comfort nowadays. The years after the fall of Ilek-Vad were slow and uneventful, and to a king whose rein ended in the claws of a water demon, during the most nightmarish decade in the Dreamlands, a slow and uneventful life should have been more than welcomed. But it wasn't.

At least once a week now, Carter would have a nightmare—or perhaps a memory—where he would relive a seemingly random moment from the war he had suffered through. Sometimes he was in Celephaïs, watching the blizzard of black snow fall from the ashen sky and literally eat through Kuranes' troops like some kind of hideous swarm of locust. Sometimes he was in Ulthar—not long after it was liberated from Hatheg—witnessing Princess Zura's armada of flying coffin-ships burn in haunting purple flames and rain down on the thatched hovels of civilians. He'd cover his ears every time those innocent children died screaming as blazing masses of wood crashed down on them. Sometimes he stood aside the Pargian chiefs again, fighting like hell against Mr. Nameless' (the cute name a friend of his gave to The High Priest Not To Be Described) army of ravenous Shoggoths before they had a chance to reignite the long disabled Nightmare Pits. He would fail each time.

However the most frequent dream was, without coincidence, also the most horrific. He stood in the reflective streets of Ilek-Vad, the ruins of his own castle at his back and the hulking mass of Bokrug in front of him, charging like a crazed bull, claws grinding the glass pavement, and beady eyes dead locked on the former king, who tried his damnedest to repress the torrent of eldritch-born fear under a stern and badly aged face. And then Ilek-Vad—the towers, the fortresses, the battlements, everything—simply vanished off face of existence forever. Both Bokrug and Carter would always fall shrieking into the resulting void, plunging into the infinite black pit.

And then he would wake up, ever questioning wether or not it was a dream, even though he knew very well it was a memory.

However, the definitions of dreams and reality have been blurred to Carter for a very long time, even well before he became a king. In his old home in the Waking World, Boston, a vast portion of his life was spent embarking on lucid dream-jaunts, visiting and revisiting places like Ulthar, Celephaïs, Kled, Dylath-Leen, and everywhere else inhabited by beings that weren't bent on killing or maddening Dreamers. And of course, he would occasionally take a trip to places inhabited by beings bent on killing and maddening Dreamers. Simply for the hell of it.

But because of his frequent dreams, the worlds fabricated therein became his true home. Boston, Providence, Arkham, and the rest of New England became meaningless to him. Only the fabulous towers of ethereal cities and the surreally colorful expanses of hills and meadows held any true importance to him. Compared to utopias of his dreams, the issues of waking life became not only trivial, but needless. When Carter died what felt like only centuries ago, he was locked permanently in the Dreamlands, and he couldn't have been happier. The throne of Ilek-Vad was his paradise and he took deep solace in believing that he would never again have to suffer any mortal difficulties. He thought that his joy would never end.

He was wrong.

The final year of Ilek-Vad was a traumatic one, and prayed every night that he could simply forget everything that transpired then while also trying to convince himself that the gods he prayed to were not dead. There was a war; a nightmarish conflict between the unified regions of the Dreamlands and horrible and inhuman things from beyond. But beyond what? He didn't know. They were creatures that had no rightful place in his domain. Bokrug—the great water demon from the shunned lake in Mnar—was chief among those entities, and as evident in Carter's nightmares, was directly responsible for the destruction of Ilek-Vad.

Not only was his own home kingdom destroyed but a myriad of other regions, cities, and continents also fell to the monsters' wrath. The scars were undeniable, and if the Dreamlands were to heal it would undoubtedly take aeons. Every being living at the time will forever remember the days that the Lesser Old Ones broke through and threatened to topple everything created by the fancies of mankind, and they should have passed down those stories to their children, if only for the sake of them knowing why their homes are in shambles. That is why Carter found it so surprising that Clair had no idea that half the world was effaced, much less possessed any knowledge concerning those wars. It was disappointing to hear that Ulthar's burgomasters had—deliberately or unintentionally—withheld that piece of history from the masses. Either that, or Clair's parents withheld that history from her.

Carter lost everything during that war. Not only his throne and his home, but also his wondrous outlook on the Dreamlands and the respect of everyone he considered his family, including Pickman. The cataclysmic battles helped bring into focus the controversial philosophies that differed so heavily between humans and ghouls; one race is taught that the bodies of the dead are sacred and must be preserved, and the other is taught that the dead should return to the natural cycle through ingestion. With there being so many dead—humans and ghouls among them—the issue was bound to arise eventually. At the time, Carter clung to the human beliefs regarding the dead, and Pickman naturally disagreed. That disagreement eventually evolved into a full on feud, and they both decided that it was best to go their separate ways. Now, Carter fully agrees with Pickman, but for whatever reason that does nothing to lessen the harsh feelings between the two.

Carter shifted in his recliner, briefly stretching his legs and popping his surprisingly well aged joints. After letting out a silent yawn and scratching an itch beneath his beard, he relaxed himself and let the scarce heat of the fireplace wash over him. Wondering what time it was, he instinctively looked over at the alien clock in the corner, immediately remembering that it wasn't at all possible to read it's oddly proportioned hands and unreadable numerals. In fact, he was never even sure if the clock was ever supposed to tell the time. Obviously not the human conception of time, that is. He glanced at his wristwatch instead, seeing that it was almost eight in the evening. He needed to go to sleep. Even though he couldn't go on dream adventures anymore, he still enjoyed the comforts of a well maintained bed, even regardless of the nightmares.

And thinking about how she was probably sleeping without a bed right now, Carter sadly remembered Clair. Carter of all people should understand what she's going through, having been not only jammed in a myriad of odd and distressing situations—both mundane and extravagant— but also being forced into involvement with Nyarlathotep in more instances than he could count. However, by the time he had experienced the worst, Carter was already a well rounded dream adventurer and occult specialist. The oppression, dread, and mind blasting horror that often accompanied entities like the Crawling Chaos were all part of how he lived, but Clair was just a young girl. She had no place in Carter's world. And while she seemed to have taken her entrapment relatively well, he truly believed that was only the first stage of encroaching madness. Unless there was more to the girl than meets the eye, Carter had every reason to think that Clair wouldn't be the same when she goes home. If she goes home at all that is. Carter feared for her, but at this point he believed could do nothing about it.

_Yes you can._

At the sounding of this sudden voice, Carter started, sitting erect in his recliner, hands gripping the padded arms and head quickly turning to and fro as he looked around, expecting to find an intruder standing in the copious shadows of his house. "Who said that?" He yelled.

 _Who do you think, Randy?_ Said the voice with an unmistakably mocking tone.

Feeling foolish, Carter's brow furrowed in instant recognition, realizing that he was hearing the voice through his mind. "Nyarlathotep. Why are you here?"

_Must you ask?_

Fearing instantaneous punishment, Carter tried to ease himself, but his breathing quickened and hands trembled. Knowing from experience, a visitation from Nyarlathotep was never a good thing, especially since he didn't obey the last calling. "Look. Clair said she didn't want any company. I have to respect that."

_That was never her choice to make. And it was never your choice either.  
You should have learned by now that you mustn't ever deny me my wishes, Carter. I can not only punish you as easily as you may "punish" an insect, but I can shatter everything you ever thought was real and condemn you to your own mental prison of madness and confusion as a result. And that would be the lightest example of my discipline. Fortunately for you, I have only come to reassert my previous demands. The girl needs your help._

"Why? What's happened to her?"

_It's not what has already happened so much as what will happen. Do you honestly believe she will survive in Leng all on her own? She's made it there already, and is on her way to Kadath as we speak, but I know as well as you do that she will die. There is no question about that._

"Why do you care if she lives?"

_Why wouldn't you care if she lives? Is she not a human being like yourself? Do you not believe that her life is worth protecting?_

Cursing under his breath, Carter lifted himself to his feet and began pacing the room. "Yes, I think she's worth protecting, but…but, what am I supposed to do about it? I'm old! I should have died thousands of years ago! What makes you think I can still do things like this? I could die just as easily as her out there…"

 _My, my. Someone is sounding a tad selfish_. Nyarlathotep chuckled.

After a sigh, Carter continued. "what's going on? You're Nyarlathotep! The Crawling Chaos! You spread death and disarray wherever you go, but now you've decided to summon a random girl to your home, and save her life for…for what? You fall silent for centuries, and then this? What are you doing? Why do you need Clair? If you can't tell her, can you at least tell me? Wh…"

_Carter, silence. She's not random. Far from it. I've chosen her for a reason…_

"And what would that be?"

 _If you'd really want to know, I can explain it to you in full at some later date. But for now, time is of the essence._ An involuntary image flashed in Carter's mind as Nyarlathotep spoke; one of a lone and familiar girl crossing the icy, windswept desolates of Leng, hugging a much more familiar leather coat to her chest. Following that was the image of a group of Lengian satyrs, all naked and dancing horribly around an oddly flickering green bonfire. Knowing that Clair and these creatures were not far away from one another, the implication was clear. _The end is nearing, Carter. And if it is to play out the way you wish, then you will rescue the girl and escort her to Kadath. From there on, her fate will be my business alone. You would have played your part and will die in peace for it. She's special, Carter. For weeks she's managed resist insanity, no matter what visions I show her._

A third image came to Carter's mind: him kneeling next to an ancient, moss laden tomb in the dead of night, cradling a portable phone to his chest and bawling like a child. Only seconds prior, he was informed by something—some demon, or unnamable entity—that his best friend was dead. It was his first encounter with the supernatural and it opened the way for his future exploits. For all he knew, he could have been driven insane that night, but nonetheless he saw a world he never wanted to see afterwards. And it changed him forever. Now Clair—who's been getting mere glimpses—was about to be introduced to that same world. She'll either die foaming at the mouth, a mind shattered like a pane of glass, or come out of the darkness stronger than any other human.

Carter contemplated at length, and with a sigh, he whispered "I will obey."


	24. Drawing Blood

Every part of her body hurt. Clair thought she had known true pain when she fell into the Underworld, right on top of a d'hole, but this was unthinkable. The unrelenting cold was unquestionably the cause of it, though for multiple reasons. The wind—the always blowing wind—was more like an invisible, multi-dimensional, omnipotent razor blade than any gale she had felt in the Skai Region. It dug deep into every layer of skin on her strawberry colored cheeks, numbing the blood beneath and terrorizing every nerve with a temperature so horrendously cold, it seemed a better option to simply bury her head in a solid piece of ice. She was far beyond fearing hyperthermia. It was miracle she made it this far without dropping dead. Now, she feared losing pieces of herself to frost bite. To her horror, she pictured her members turning a grotesque shade of purplish-black, and silently falling off like a babes umbilical stub. She imagined she would have to simply leave whatever fell off behind while she continued on across Leng, minus a foot, or a hand, or maybe even an entire limb. She considered checking herself for the early signs, purely out of fear, but that would involve removing a boot, or makeshift mitten, and that was something she dreaded doing. She was already freezing beneath her bundles of clothes. Why make it worse by exposing he self to the air?

Aside from the newly born agony, the cold had a funny way of amplifying any part of her that was already in pain. The cramps in her legs and blisters on her feet—which have probably been there since Kled—now threatened to outright paralyze her. She could have ignored it once, but at this point, marching monotonously under the bleak sky, every step and every shifting of her knees or hips brought out a hiss of pain and a sharp grimace. 

The cold also wreaked havoc on her sinuses, more so than any winter she had suffered prior. Watery mucus constantly flowed from her nostrils and an unbearable headache pulsed ceaselessly in both temples and behind her eyes, which forced out a cascade of tears that instantaneously froze into shards that freeze-burned under her lids. 

She was fucking miserable.

She had little sense of direction at this point. The shadowed landscape looked exactly the same no matter which way she looked. It all appeared to be an endless slate of black, terminating where the horizon bordered the thick curls and plumes of ash-gray clouds. Rocks and other geological forms could only be seen when they were within the immediate vicinity, and even then they were nothing more than quiet black apparitions, barely visible through the clouds of wind blown dust. She couldn't navigate by the sun since it was practically nonexistent nor the stars since they were almost always hidden and wholly unfamiliar during the few times they were visible. Kadath itself was the only thing to mark direction. Like always, it brooded there in the North, a jagged tumor on the ragged horizon, jutting up high and impaling the sky. Half the time, it too was obscured by the veil of dry dust, and she would be so relieved to see it gone too, but in mere moments the dust would thin and Kadath would be within sight once more, it's very presence bearing down on her weary soul as if it were giving her a condemning stare.

Hours passed, and seemed to stretch on into days as the already scant light ebbed and left Leng frighteningly darker than before. Still, somehow, Kadath was visible. Perhaps it's shape and presence was permanently burned into her conscious so that she could find it with her eyes closed. And tightly closed she indeed left them. As night fell, the dust storms heightened to the point were there was no wavering in its intensity; just a constant onslaught of tiny knives that buffeted against her exposed face and eyes. The winds passing over her ears rendered her incapable of hearing as well, so she walked on both blind and deaf to her environment. It was somewhat blissful actually. Having most of her senses cut off, she would have liked to believe she was as far away from Leng as possible, if it wasn't for the fact she was freezing her ass off.  She didn't want to look at Kadath nor the strange sky above. 

A metallic thump sounded beneath her boot, eerily similar to _The Furtive Siren_ 's gangplank, and she was thrown completely off her train of thought. She tapped her toe against the ground she found herself standing on, heard more of the resonance, and was rewarded with confirmation: she was on top of a metal surface. What it was she had not the slightest idea, but was both afraid of what it could portend and relieved to have found something to distract her. She stooped to run her fingers across the metal and instantly flinched at how cold it was. It wasn't shrouded in frost as she would have expected, but it was still beyond cold enough to essentially burn the tip of her fingers. Foolishly, she ventured to touch it again, this time mustering the strength to keep her hands on it until she found out what it was. It was far too dark to actually see it, but from touch alone she determined it was flat and the size of a large canvas, roughly rectangular, and covered in raised lettering, much like brail but more convoluted.

She picked it up, struggling to make out its form while it rested in her own hands, but it remained only a vague impression in her sight. 

 

When the wind shifted, metal sounded again—to her surprise—this time as an omnipresent creaking that reminded her (appropriately) of a cacophony of badly rusted iron doors opening. The suddenness and strangeness of the sound was enough to unsettle her, but regardless she knew that it was most likely only a structure or machine of some sort, not anything living.

The veil of dust thinned for the briefest of moments, allowing the sky and land to be visible, even at a small degree. Though she could still see next to nothing, she was at least able to discern the heavens and Leng by the slight variation in darkness. Both were black, but even so the sky was just marginally less black. This alone confirmed what she had suspected: there was a lone structure, standing no more than twenty meters ahead of her. It’s towering, ragged bulk—being about forty meters tall—reached up from the black pool of the landscape and cleft the sky like a massive abyss. If she had to compare it to anything, it had a silhouette similar to a church steeple, only three times larger and spotted with frayed holes through which she can easily see the sky. The wind blew again, forcing yet another moan out of the corpse structure.

She could have sworn she seen it lean a little.

She kept one palm held outward as she anxiously approached, waiting to get close enough to touch the black structure. Anything could have been inside the tower—anything malevolent—but she feared she would freeze to death if she didn’t find shelter. The ragged tower could provide some respite from the hostile gales, and may even protect her from monsters, granted that none already claimed the tower as their home. For whatever reason, she kept the piece of metal tucked under her unoccupied arm, possibly due simply to the same curiosity that compelled her to keep that poetic scroll. Obviously, it read something and she wanted to know what.

She stopped when she felt the freezing, coarse surface of the tower on her fingertips. She didn’t flinch this time, but instead pressed her palm tight against the metal, ignoring her skin as it went numb, and dragged her nails over the little bumps and ravines thereon. Tiny flakes of rust came free and gathered under her nails as she continued around the structure’s circumference, keeping that hand on it. In no time at all, she found a straight edged opening she assumed to be a door. The interior was no more illuminated than the outside, and that was to say she saw absolutely nothing at all. Regardless, she ventured inside and stumbled around somewhat aimlessly, savoring the absence of the bitting winds. It was still cold, but wether by illusion or otherwise, it seemed considerably less cold than the outside.

She flinched and gasped as she collided with an unseen thing, then quickly ran her hands over it, discovering that it was no more than inanimate object, albeit one she couldn’t identify. She continued on, stumbling across more mysterious but apparently harmless items, and responded to each likewise. It never escaped her that anything could be lurking within these dark halls, so her imagination was running rampant, half believing that everything she touched was a facet of a massive metallic serpent or beast.

Eventually, she found a wall—equally as scarred and flaky as the outside—and resolved to follow that until she came across a small aperture, something that seemed akin to a broom closet. She explored it thoroughly with touch alone to assure that the scarce space was free of imaginary demons, and once she was satisfied, she hunkered down in the corner in a tight fetal position, face and knees pressed close together and arms hugging her shins tightly as if they were hugging her mother.

She thought of her mom, and her dad. And Willow. Did they miss her? She wanted to assume they did. If Willow had been left Ulthar, would he have missed her? She pictured Willow sitting on her father’s lap—napping or purring—while he and her mother desperately wondered where their child was, worrying themselves to death. Sadly, that was only fancy; a vision of what could have been. Clair thought she was as good as dead, and had known that ever since leaving her home, or at the very least knew on a subconscious level. She had accepted that, although she was far from comfortable with it. She knew she would die—be it on Leng or atop Kadath—and she knew she will die aching for her family to be there with her. But what is her family thinking right now? Can they live without her? Have they gone mad in grief? Have they already forgotten about their precious daughter? She imagined her parents sitting alone in the dimly lit parlor, quiet and mournfully contemplative without their offspring and their iron-gray cat within a safe ten or twenty foot radius.

A deep chill struck her cheek, and it slowly rolled downward like a knife’s edge tracing a line. Patting, she found a another tear there, this one nearly frozen, and quickly wiped it away. She reached into her satchel to fetch her canteen and when she pulled it out she noted the absence of the complementary liquid sloshing. Regardless, she raised it to take a sip, but of course nothing flowed out. It wasn’t empty. It weighted as much as any full canteen. She rapped one flattened side with her knuckles and in response the canteen made an a dull thumping noise, as if she were hitting a rock.

“Fuck.” She swore, knowing that all her water reserves were frozen. Uselessly, she banged the canteen-turned-paperweight against the floor in a half-assed attempt to make it drinkable. All that happened, though, was she managed to crack the mini glacier inside, not nearly enough to create small chunks that would have been ingestible. She never had to worry about this kind of shit in Ulthar. Living so close to a desert, Ultharians typically worried more about water turning into vapor rather than ice. She never would have guessed how to handle waking up one morning to find the days water was all of the sudden frozen. This was no surprise. Given how cold everything thing in Leng was, it was more shocking that the water in her eyeballs didn’t freeze.

Resisting the urge to thrown the useless canteen across the unseen room, she instead dropped it back into the satchel. Still keeping her limbs huddled together, she fell over on her side. Her fatigue and her eagerness to move to dispel the cold slowly gripping her were at odds with one another. She desperately needed sleep. Even knowing she ran the risk of suffering another nightmare vision, all she wanted now was to escape the skin-piercing numbness that wracked her and the only way to do that was to sleep. She almost certainly wouldn’t wake up in the morning, not without a means of warmth, but there was no kindle in this gods forsaken crypt. Only metal and dust.

Maybe Nyarlathotep will do something to protect her.

She shut her eyes and held herself tighter to make up for the lack of a blanket. She tried to sleep to the visions of her beloved family, but as expected, the memories were hazy. Trying to form father’s face in her mind was like trying to sculpt water. Somewhere in the depths of her conscious lied the visages and voices of her parents and Willow, but it was hopelessly impossible to bring them to the surface. Regardless of that, Clair knew she still loved them and she prayed to the rotting, loathsome gods above that they loved her too and will cherish her memory long after Nyarlathotep ends her.

To this thought, she fell asleep. She dreamed, but against her expectations her dreams were not nightmares but memories. Memories she would have thought had vanished into oblivion given she had any recollection of them to begin with.

She was in school again; a young girl—almost a month away from becoming nine—sitting in the shade of a gnarled and leafless birch at the very edge of the playing field adjacent to the school building. Despite it being winter, the temperature was easily tolerable. Cold, of course, but beneath her wool coat—finely stitched together by her late grandmother—she was quite comfortable. Over her lap was stretched a ragged notebook full of miscellaneous sketches; some of Willow, some of zich bugs (which, ever since that weird incident when she was three, had fascinated her), and others just lazy doodles of cartoonish characters, more or less inspired by the “political” segments in the weekend newspapers. Currently, though, she was sketching a jolly looking snail wearing a bowlers hat. It wasn’t a very skillful sketch either—and she knew that—but the cute U-shaped smile the little mollusk gave her amused her nonetheless.

She looked up and saw the other children playing a variety of uninteresting games a dozen or so meters away. Some pointlessly kicked about a heavily pitted yellow ball, others condensed into circles (Geeky boys over there; popular girls over there; the “bad boys” over there, probably taking about the aforementioned popular girls. The usual) and chatted about kid stuff. Clair wanted nothing to do with them. She didn’t really like them much, and the feelings were probably mutual on their part, so she was perfectly content with sitting alone, accompanied only by her friendly snail-guy.

Before she could return to her drawing, a ball—the yellow one—darted out of nowhere and struck her square in the jaw. She cried out, cringing in shock and rubbing the tender spot where the ball had impacted. Blood was already beginning to accumulate under her pale skin in a bruise, which stung with every delicate touch she gave it. When she came to her senses seconds later, she noticed the ball slowly inching across the grass until it came to a stop just within arms reach. Not knowing why, she picked it up and started rolling it around in her palms in a display of unwarranted curiosity, as if she never seen a ball before. She only briefly wondered who sent the ball her way until her answer came running across the field, followed by a couple of her lackeys: Jessica. Fucking Jessica.

“Nice going, weirdo.” The blonde haired, slim faced Jessica whined as she came to a stop right in front of Clair, placing her hands on her hips as if she thought she were an adult. Which she wasn’t. “You got in the way of our game.”

“You kicked that at me on purpose, Jess. I’m not stupid.” Clair retorted in her usually quiet voice, briefly considering standing up to show a little defiance. Instead—shamefully, she thought—she timidly offered Jessica her ball and said, less than defiantly, “Leave me alone.”

“Uh, first off: Don’t call me Jess. Only people get to use my nickname, not crazy eyed freaks.” Shocked, Clair wanted to gnash her teeth and beam hatred at her in a feral gesture, but instead she could only find the ability to gasp. She hated it when people made fun of her eyes. It was not only because of their unnaturally green color, but because of the the squinty look that came with the rest of her oriental-like complexion. “Second, you’ve got your freak germs all over the ball, dork, so you can keep it.” Adding to the offense, Jessica emphasized by kicking the ball right out of Clair’s hand, taking her sketchbook with it and narrowly missing her face. Upon reflex, she shrunk closer to the tree she leaned on and crossed her arms over her head in a defensive gesture. She could feel her cheeks burning and her vision became cloudy with tears. The blonde gave a malicious giggle when she saw her prey beginning to cry. “Gods, you’re so pathetic. Your worse than a kitten, freak.” And with a scoff, Jessica walked away, her toadies trailing closely behind.

Feeling as defeated as always, Clair wiped away some of the seemingly endless streams of tears and started picking up some of her artwork, now loose from the notebook and scattered all over the grass. Through a sob, she managed to tell herself “I’m not a freak.”

“What was that?”

Clair perked up, staring at Jessica—who now stood a couple of meters away, half turned—with more fear glimmering in her eyes than she would have preferred to show.

“What was that?” Jess repeated, talking to Clair as if she were nothing more than a cat that had vexed her.

“I…I…I said…I’m…” Clair stuttered, clumsily rising to her feet.

“‘Uh…Uh…I…I…I…’” Jess laughed mockingly. “Gods, listen to you! Seriously, everything you say just makes you look more and more like a weirdo. Why don’t you just crawl back to whatever cave you came from and leave us normal people alone, freak…”

“I told you I’m not a freak!” Clair shouted, closing the distance between them by a few paces. Her cheeks burned hotter, and she could have only guessed how red she looked. Taking a deep breath—utterly unable to believe she just talked back to Jessica of all kids—she savored the astonished look on the blonde’s eyes for a second before repeating “I’m not a freak. You want to see a damn freak, look at your dysfunctional parents, look at your mindless friends, an…and look in a mirror you ugly bit…”

“I’LL KILL YOU!” Jessica fired back, instantly running across the short space between them and ramming Clair with enough force to send her falling back onto the tree. She felt the ragged bark scrape at the back of scalp and the hard wood collide with her skull with the force of a hammer strike before collapsing to the ground, sight, hearing, and senses all disoriented. Her arms went limp, and she dropped her disheveled bundle of doodles, all the pages swaying and floating back onto the ground. Through the haze, Clair could barely see Jessica as she dragged her to a standing position by the collar and senta fist rocketing across her nose. The nerves in her sinuses screamed in pain with every bit of broken bone and cartilage that scrapped against one another, and a cascade of warm and almost black blood spilled over her lips. She fell to her knees cradling her freshly broken nose in her palms and whimpering in pain.

“Like I said…” Jessica purred, sending another kick into Clair’s stomach and watching in glee as she crumpled to the grass in a tight fetal position. “You’re pathetic.”

How long Jessica and her friends lingered, Clair couldn’t tell through her partially disabled senses, but eventually they did leave her alone. She sobbed beneath the tree for maybe an hour before reason told her to go home and get medical help. Even knowing she needed the attention, the walk to her home cottage was slow. She wanted to stop thinking of what Jessica had called her, but every few seconds the words would repeat loud and strong in the forefront of her mind. _Gods, your so pathetic. Only people get to call me that, not crazy eyed freaks. Why don’t you just crawl back to whatever cave you came from and leave us normal people alone._

Before she knew it, she was standing at doorstep of her home, her parents waiting and probably worrying on the other side of the closed threshold. She hesitated a moment before entering, not knowing exactly why. Did she want her mom and dad to know what happened to her; that she had her ass kicked by another girl? Or was she afraid of looking weak in front of the only two people she always wanted to live up to?

She ran her sleeve across her upper lip, wiping away some of the blood she had previously forgotten to clean away. It had mostly dried now, turned to sticky flakes that covered her mouth and sleeve. A short lived pulse of pain burst deep within her head as she ran her arm over her nose again, shifting the fragments of bone therein.

She made a move to enter, but before she could touch the nob, the door swung open to reveal her mother, clearly startled and shaken by the sight of her bruised and bloody offspring. With one trembling hand lightly clasped over her mouth, she said “Oh my gods! My gods, Clair my dear, what happened to you?”

Before Clair could give a proper answer, her mother was already guiding her through the door into the living room. She gently urged her daughter onto the sofa and eased her into a lounging position. Clair finally replied “Jessica. She hit me, and…and called me a freak.”

“Stoua!” She called out to her husband, seemingly ignoring Clair. “Come in here! Quick!” Then, turning to her daughter, she said, softly “It’ll be alright, Clair. We’ll get you fixed up as soon as possible, okay? Then we’ll go see a doctor about your nose. Does it hurt?”

Clair nodded, wincing as her mother gingerly laid a finger on the crooked bridge of her nose. Seeing the pained look curling on her lips, Clair’s mother enveloped her in a tight hug, taking care not to brush her broken nose. With her ear against her mother’s chest, Clair could hear her heart thumping rapidly over her whispered apologies. Her own heartbeats synchronized almost perfectly with mom’s, creating a sense of unity between them.

“Who did you say did this? Jessica?”

Again, Clair couldn’t give a verbal answer before she was interrupted, this time by the sounds of her father rushing in through the back door, saying “What? What’s going on?”

“Clair. She’s hurt.” She said, Keeping one hand on Clair’s left arm.

He didn’t say anything as she rushed over to a kneeling position in front of Clair, but the worried look in his pale eyes said it all. He laid a sun tanned hand on her right arm—the same instance her mother ran off to retrieve a wet rag with which to clean the dried blood—and began scrutinizing her injuries, taking especially note of the bruises dotting her cheek and jaw. Finally he said with the soothing voice only a parent could have “It’ll be alright, hon. You’ll be okay. All we have to do is go see acolyte Debrius, and he’ll patch you up good as new. Who did this?”

“Jessica.”

“One of your schoolmates, I guess? I’ll have a talk with her parents soon and get this straightened out. When we get back from Debrius’ office, you go take a nap and sleep this off. And, also, you stay home from school tomorrow.” Clair smiled, despite her current situation. And this bought a smile to her old man’s face too.

Mother came rushing back in, quickly pushing aside her husband and started cleaning Clair’s face, albeit very carefully. Within a few seconds, all the blood was gone and smeared over the still damp cloth in a pink stain. Without much delay, her and her parents were at their family physician’s office in just over ten minutes. Old Debrius quickly straightened and patched her broken nose bone with a swiftness and skill honed over years in his field, and thereafter assured she wasn’t harmed in any other way.

As Clair awoke from her dream, the last thing she re-experienced was the blissful moment she found herself sitting on the sofa, snug between her mother and father—who seemed more than glad that their beloved child was comfortable in their embrace—with Willow curled up and snoozing on her lap. It was several hours after they returned from the physician, and night had descended to herald in the end of a day that Clair was glad to see gone. Dinner had been served and eaten (Pork roast and sweet rolls; Clair’s favorite.) and the furnace lit to combat the encroaching winter cold.

She was warm. She was home. She was safe. She was with the only people who she knew would ever love her. If she had the choice, she would have stayed there in their arms forever, as far away as possible from the doom and despair she now knew to be her only destined fate. With them, she would have lived a good life of ignorance and joy, going day by serene day blind to the watchful eye of the Crawling Chaos and the ruins of the outside world. That would have been the path she’d follow, not the damnable dream path that bisected Leng and terminated in Kadath. She never had that choice, though. Hell by ice and heartache by death and confusion was the way her life will end. As if he knew they would end up separated one day, Clair’s father began teaching her basic lessons in martial arts, not long after her dispute with Jessica, for the sake of preparing her should she ever get caught in another fight that would prove life threatening. The sessions were physically strenuous and incredibly time consuming due to her poor athletic abilities and and her general lethargy—both mental and physical—but in time she accomplished a sort of fighting skill she would have considered somewhat passible, although she had no doubt that it had deteriorated quite a bit in the four years between then and now.

She sat up and stretched, still feeling the warmth and physiological ease left over from her dream, despite the ever biting cold and brooding atmosphere that clutched the metal structure she still found herself curled in. The morning light had set in, although Clair could only barely call it that. The starlight that poured in through the uneven and pane-less windows was about the equivalent of late twilight, but regardless it was a stark enough contrast to the suffocating pitch she had slept in. And it was enough to illuminate the wrecked objects that littered her room, making it visible to Clair for the first time. As she had though previously, the array of misshapen “furniture” was in fact machinery, adorned with badly rusted and horribly warped plates of metal, shattered glass bulbs and domes that almost resembled gas lightbulbs, and an overwhelming amount of black and grainy wires and tubes that extended from each ambiguous device and lay sprawled and coiled across the dust laden floor like rotting snakes. The cords even dangled from gaping tears in the ceiling, giving Clair the impression of a room overrun by ancient and artificial clumps of ivy. What the machines did in life she couldn’t tell. They were far past any feasible use by now anyhow.

She looked on the floor next to her and noticed the piece of metal she had picked up from outside still sitting there. Like everything else, it was covered in a layer of orange oxidation, and it was severely twisted into sharp points around the edges, but what made it special was that it was covered in a myriad of obscured runes and glyphs, still unlike any language she’s ever seen or the alien writing on the monoliths in Ooth-Nargai. To her eyes, they appeared as a coalition of curved scratches and dots, yet despite every bit of strangeness and unfamiliarity she found she could _read_ it as well as she could read English. Somehow—by some means she couldn’t even pretend to understand—each new character transfiguration itself to a familiar letter or word and she began reading the metal page with the ease of reading a penny novel. “By our sisterhood and… … the mighty ones suckle at the teats of the All Mo… … … for the glory of all… … … the priests will see the heretics decapitated… … kind will rise once more. ‘That is not dead… …strange aeons, death…”. Heading the fragmented passage was an oddly haunting symbol, placed somewhat prestigiously at the top like a newspaper heading. She knew this wasn’t a letter, for it didn’t conjure up any subconscious meaning. In short, it resembled a “V”, but it was bisected by three horizontal lines and surmounted by several concentric circles that look unsettlingly like a staring eyeball.

She read over the engraved words again and again, not so much as an attempt to understand their meaning, but to assure herself that she was actually reading them. There was no logic in her understanding a language she’s never seen before in her life—that much she knew—but it need not be said that she was beyond questioning the things that happen to her. Maybe her insanity was forcing her to imagine a virtually nonexistent meaning or maybe she had the miraculous and superhuman ability to read anything, but either way it was of no relevance.

As if it were trash, she tossed aside the metal page, sending it into the guts of a wide open and hideously mangled machine that slumped against a rotting structure that somewhat resembled a desk, albeit a desk big enough to accommodate a gug. The resulting clank echoed through the corpse tower, lingered for seconds, and then faded as if it were the mournful tolling of a cracked bell. Once it died to nothing, Clair was reminded of the absolute silence that permeated Leng and its frigid atmosphere.

She ventured outside and found the plateau looking just as bleak as it had when she first stepped foot. Sky and earth still gray and jagged, and Kadath still an eyeless watcher besmirching the horizon. The only real difference was a lone bird flying in circles several miles East. Even at that distance, Clair could tell that the aviator was massive, possibly rivaling the size of a small cabin. Odds are, it would kill her on sight if it were close enough to know she stood in the open, but it seemed entirely preoccupied with it’s vulture-like dance.

She glanced back at the building that served as her inn and her eyes widened seeing just how weathered the tower actually looked. In fact, she laughed a little at the miracle that it didn’t collapse right on top of her as she slept. The rust-orange and charcoal-black tower leaned very steeply, so much so that several metal panels and frayed copper wires freely dangled from its time ravaged facade. Holes dotted it like smallpox sores, each yawning wide open and showing bent and twisted girders that looked like rotting fangs. These holes were almost indiscernible from the broken windows that spiraled up the spire-like edifice. There had one been a crown at the top, apparently, but that had given away to an enormous gap that protruded several more skeletal girders that shot diagonally at the sky.

Printed in faded vermillion paint on one of the relatively unmarred faces of the tower was the exact V-symbol she had found on the metallic page she had slept with. She briefly pondered what that insignia had once been used to represent.

She walked on, taking a sidelong glance at the enormous bird and swallowing the fear it provoked. With each brisk pace, the Glock (Now fully loaded and ready to kill) at her side swayed and brushed against her thigh, an ongoing reminder that she wasn’t entirely defenseless should that bird or something like it decide to pluck Clair off the ground like a worm from its burrow.

It was delusional to believe it of any use—she knew—but her father taught her how to fight back when someone fucks with her. And, technically, Jessica did too.

When she dies kicking and screaming she’ll remember and honor them both for the the lessons they gave her, and she’ll savor the fact that she may be able draw blood from her opponent in the unholiest land that no one would ever dare trod. No one but her.


	25. Sleep Well, My Murderous Child

The green light flickered in the distance and Clair stared at it, somewhat dumbstruck and considerably wary. Doubtlessly, it was a fire. What else could it be? Maybe a bioluminescent being native to Leng? The way the little emerald globule moved like a winking star perfectly mimicked the motions of a campfire. But why green?

 

She shook off the string of useless questions, realizing, as always, she’ll never have her answers.

 

Yet another dusty gale swept over her, furthering her numbing to the point of virtual paralysis. She squeezed her eyes shut—frozen fears crunching between her lids—rubbed her hands over her face and at least pretended they offered some kind of warmth. The ragged cloth over her palms felt like ice, and her crisp cheeks fared no better. Her fingers brushed the frayed bangs over her eyebrows, and she shivered when she felt how stiff her locks had become. The grease from her long unwashed mop of hair had apparently froze, pretty much turning it to straw. She should have froze to death by now for sure, so she thought, but yet she still walked on, albeit perpetually teetering on the brink of dropping dead. The need for warmth was so overpowering at this point, far exceeding her need for sustenance and water, and for days now (Like in the Underworld and in The Outside, she had completely lost track of time. Again, days might as well have been hours or months) she had been desperately brainstorming means of fighting back her dropping body temperature. At first, the scant but surely existent skeletons of century-old dead trees seemed promising. It seemed simple enough to just snap off a few branches and ignite them into a little campfire using the few matches she had left, but when she attempted this she discovered that the wood wouldn’t burn. She retried almost ten times and, to her ever building frustration, the end result was always the same: The match-light would lightly scorch the pitted, dried, and heavily splintered remains of the branches, but would never catch fire. Her attempts never even yielded a puff of smoke nor a spark that lived over a second.

 

Feeling more disheartened than she did prior, she gave up on that and continued onward, silently wishing for the heat of Summer. Ordinarily, she would hate Summertime and the very thought of it. A year ago, she would have groaned from seeing naked tree limbs spawn bundles of green leaves over night, simply because that act of nature foretold of the coming heatwaves, dreadfully humid afternoons, and swarms of mosquitoes that would risk life and spindly limd to sample her blood. But now, feeling her bloodless toes about to fall off in their boots, she would have much preferred to be baking under a full and blazing sun. At least she would have been home, in a world that was familiar and logical.

 

The mysterious light in the distance seem to promise warmth, though. Warmth she desperately needed now. At the same time, however, it could promise death in the form of Lengian predators. She mentally balanced the two options at length and put care to her resolve, feeling the biting air numbing her skin and the weight of the gun at her hip. Die of frost bite, or go forth fighting the way father taught her for the possibility of salvation; it was no difficult choice.

 

She speed-walked closer, all the while the green light seeming to grow fuller and more profound until the vague shapes of what seemed to be immense boulders became apparent in the emerald sphere of light. The flickering dance the light performed continued on, the darting tongues of fire at last becoming discernible. At fifty meters away, it became plain to her that it wasn’t a campfire, but a bonfire; abnormally tall, and twisting and spinning like a cyclone from Hell. She also noticed that the “boulders”, though irregular and poorly built, were in fact cobblestone houses, adorned with pitch-black windows and yawning doorways draped with tattered animal hides. All of which surrounded the bonfire in a crude ring, completing the sense of a small and rudimentary village.

 

The implication was clear. Knowing well that there were occupants in those hovels, she quickly stopped and fell on her stomach, flat against the darkened ground to minimize the chances of being seen. One hand automatically dropped to the butt of her gun and swiped it out, holding it in front of her lowered head with one finger placed on the trigger. The weight of the bullets inside and the feel of metal against her palms and fingertips was savagely comforting. She knew she was hell bent on obtaining something life saving from that village, but the dangers, though unclear, were a guarantee. If she were to get anything and escape, she would need a plan; a very well thought out and careful approach.

 

Out of her peripheral vision she saw a cluster of wind smoothed boulders nearby, surely big enough to cover her for the time being. After assuring that the mystery “villagers” were still inside and oblivious to her, she scampered to the rocks and knelt behind them. Quickly checking one more time, she still didn’t see any one, let alone any sign that she had been detected. Were they all asleep? Though dark, it was still the Lengian equivalent of day, so the unseen folk still being in bed seemed unlikely. Lest they were nocturnal, of course. But what if the fire; that spinning, green hellfire?

 

Before Clair could question the blazing oddity any further, the living confirmation of her curiosity came lumbering out of one of the houses. She watched on from her hiding place, peeking from the thin space between two stones, as the creature proceeded to the village’s center wherein danced the green fire. It was a man—or something almost like a man—that was easily a foot and a half taller than her father and as hairy and sickly looking as a cancer-riddled ox. Two bony protrusions extended from its forehead and curved around over its skull like the horns of a ram. In fact, that was what they were, Clair thought. Noticing the other surreal details—the cloven, hoof-like feet, the wide lipped scowl, and the exposed and obscenely long phallus—she immediately recognized the appalling thing for what it was: A satyr.

 

She was a girl—a young girl—so Clair had every reason to fear the most salacious creatures in all the six regions. Still, she needed warmth and possibly a myriad of other things those creatures could “provide”. If she were to be careful, she could steal some of their kindle (For what else could give life to that bonfire?) and make a clean getaway. Once she had put some distance between here and herself, she could make her own fire, saving her own skin, and, not to mention, melt her canteen ice into something drinkable. But she still didn’t have a plan. She had no clue where they even kept their firewood nor anything else of any value. Aside from that, her ingrained fear of fuck-happy, almost-human monsters threatened to get the better of her. She thought about running and risk freezing to death later than even considering being killed on the spot, or worse yet, getting her virginity taken at thirteen.

 

Frustrated, she swore in a whispering hiss “Fucking dammit.”

 

“Fukk-hing dam-hit…”

 

She turned around and gasped upon hearing the sudden, croaking voice mock her swearing. She couldn’t understand how she didn’t hear it approach her—she should have heard the expected pitter patter of boney hooves against hard earth—but regardless, another, hefty satyr stood behind her, staring down at the crouching child with a wide yellow toothed grin and narrow eyes. Before she could ready her weapon, one shodden foot swung at her and knocked her weapon free from her grasp, deeply cutting and bloodying her wrist and palm in the process. The pistol skipped across the dust and came to rest no more than a meter and a half away. She tried to leap after it, but the satyr had already grabbed her in a headlock and proceeded to take her towards the cluster of houses, stopping only to grab the Glock as it’s personal trophy.

 

Fearing the worst, she desperately screamed her little lungs out (even despite the thick arm squeezing her throat) and beat all four of her limbs against the greasy, naked body of her captor. Unfazed, the satyr only rewarded her with a low and nefarious chuckle.

 

“Little bitch make good toy.” it said, shocking Clair with the fact that it could speak English. It then tightly pressed the opened end of the Glock’s barrel against her temple, forcing her to feel the cold metal of her own weapon. It laughed some more as it pulled her closer to his erected prick, the musky heat (The irony made her sick) from it’s body making clear it’s intentions.

 

In moments, the satyr had dragged her into the village and to the forefront of the bonfire, which cast the facades of the houses in a surreally green glow. The captor brutally threw her onto the ground, only inches away from the fire’s edge, where the sudden burst of heat overwhelmed her and made her temporarily immobile as it returned feeling to her nearly frozen form. With a grunt, she landed face first into the dirt, getting a bounty of dust into her mouth and eyes, where the sharpened grains scrapped away behind her lids and lips. When she finally sat up, rubbing at her itchy eyes, the satyr chirped something in it’s own language and pulled her satchel off her shoulders and cast into the heart of the bonfire. She watched through blurry, weeping eyes as all her belongings—some from Father, some from Atal, and some from Carter—burned to cinders behind the translucent veil of scorching emerald. All of her bullets, her water, the last of her food, her knife, and many other things she really needed were suddenly gone, leaving her completely sure that there was no hope of surviving what’s to come now.

 

The satyr threw its head backwards and howled, it’s throaty voice piercing the atmosphere and spreading throughout in a in untuned siren. In immediate response to the call, more of the horned denizens—most of them being males, and a few timid looking females that clung to the males’ arms—padded out of their homes and regrouped with her captor. Circled around Clair, they all stared in varying forms of fascination at their terrified prisoner.

 

Clair considered standing, and almost did, but her captor grunted something that sounded vaguely like “Kneel” and swung her Glock side to side as a reminder of her status, so she stayed on her knees, but kept her gaze upwards, quickly looking from one naked beast to another. Her more fragile side almost forced a plea for mercy out of her, but with every ounce of willpower she had left, she kept it to herself.

 

“Valoco!” Her captor yelled, his voice betraying somethings akin to humbleness. “Valoca cini vel patranei be dan naetc. Valoca.”

 

The other satyrs (especially the females) whispered among themselves in hushed and awestruck tones, passing between themselves the word—or name—“Valoca”.

 

As the murmuring began to ebb, a roaring voice shushed the crowd, who—in apparent obedience—moved aside and made way for the owner of that voice: a massive, muscular, pot-belied, black-haired male who strutted forth on broad feet the color of obsidian. From his cracked lips jutted crooked, blackened canines and from his mass of braided hair extended horns large enough to frighten a bull. Unlike the other satyrs, this one was clothed in a ragged kilt—to which was strapped a vicious looking battle axe—and a necklace made from the skulls of what looked to be tiny horses. Clair could only assume this one—Valoca—was their chief. Or at least, the most feared of their clan.

 

“Valoca.” Her captor intoned once more, as the massive beast came to a halt in front of the girl. Keeping it’s yellow-eyed gaze on Clair, Valoca waved the comparatively small satyr closer and gestured at the Glock. With a bow, her captor handed it’s superior the weapon in question, and backed away without a sound.

 

The way Valoca examined the gun with both contempt and savage desire—and not to mention, how the other satyrs crowded around them in a loose circle—reminded her of how Pickman and the ghouls of Throk captured her with the intention of eradication. The massive almost-human ran it’s overgrown nails over the still lustrous sides of the Glock, apparently fascinated by the way it gleamed in the supernatural light of the bonfire. When it gently touched the trigger and the uncocked hammer, she remembered how Pickman had struck down Willow with Clair’s own weapon. Her body and mind locked up in sheer fright as she came to the realization that Valoca may intend on doing the same to her. However, the growing bulge in it’s kilt suggested it has other intentions.

 

“Cilcalds ner difvelcgo?” Valoca asked, more to itself than to Clair or anyone else in the audience. What his words meant, Clair did not want to know.

 

After a very tense silence—during which Clair tried to assure herself she wasn’t going to die—Valoca finally grunted “Cilcalds” in resolve, and dropped the Glock at it’s side. Clair watched it hit the ground with a dull thud, and waited to see if any of the weaker satyrs would move to retrieve it. What would happen if she tried to grab it?

 

“Cilcalds.” Valoca repeated with a gnarled grin stretching from ear to ear. As if it were deliberately intending on prolonging Clair’s suspense, he slowly reached for the rusted buckle that held it’s kilt and belt together. It playfully fiddled with it for a second while Clair watched on in wide-eyed horror, knowing that the behemoth intended on taking advantage of her.

 

Her fear laden stare went to the pistol on the ground and she silently urged herself to grab it. She quickly and briefly shifted back to the satyr, just in time to see it snap the belt free and let it’s only cover fall to it’s ankles, dragged quickly to the ground by the weight of the axe, which fell with a a loud clang right on top of the gun.

 

 _Now! Grab the gun now!_ She begged herself, but couldn’t dispel her fear enough to move.

 

“Cilcalds.” Valoca chuckled, wrapping a fist around his erected manhood. Behind him—like a rabid crowd at a public gladiator match—the other satyrs cheered and shouted the name of their perverted champion.

 

Valoca took one step closer to the girl, then two, then three, keeping his pacing slow to savor the terror stretched across Clair’s face.

 

In a second—in only a mere second—Clair remembered her father with astonishing clarity and all the fighting lessons her gave her. With the ease of finding a term in a dictionary, she called upon every swift maneuver and melee tactic she has ever learned. With nothing else but misplaced confidence to convince herself, she was sure she could fight her way free from this.

 

The look in her eyes and lips must have changed very suddenly, for the massive satyr recoiled in surprise taking a look it’s preys face. In an instant, the look on the satyr’s changed from predacious to stark bafflement.

 

“Kill them.” She told herself in a voice too low for anyone else to hear. “Kill them kill them kill them kill them.”

 

“Cax vich?” Valoca asked the girl, head cocked one side, hand falling from it’s nether region.

 

Clair raised her head to make eye contact with her would-be mate. Her chapped lips curled into a snarl “You sick mother fucker…” she hissed “DIE!”

 

She sprang like a cat at both the gun and the enemy’s axe, grabbing one in each hand, and leaped to her feet just in time for the lumbering Valoca to turn around and shoot her a leer teeming with hatred. “DIFVECGO!” it yelled, balling it’s meaty hands into fists and hurling them at the Ultharian. But before it even had chance, Clair had already aimed the Glock between the filthy beast’s eyes and pulled the trigger. With a deafening roar she hadn’t heard since she first met Carter, the bullet carved a path through Valoca’s skull, utterly ruining it’s already hideous face.

 

Upon seeing the blooming flower of hot blood that sprayed out of the back of it’s head, Clair smiled. In weeks, she hadn’t seen a sight nearly as beautiful. Not even Serannian could compare.

 

The remnants of the gun’s scream died with a fading echo, accompanied by no other sound other than the giant satyr’s dying voice, slipping past it’s trembling lips in the form of confused whispers. Valoca stumbled backwards and dropped like a falling tree on it’s bare ass, every muscle and member falling satisfyingly still save for it’s prick, which slowly became limp and harmless as it’s blood stopped cold.

 

Surprisingly, none of the other satyrs immediately made a move on her. They all stood staring like traumatized children at their fallen king, felled by none other than a young girl.

 

Silence lingered for a moment, whilst Clair looked from one stunned countenance to another.

 

Then, they decided to fight back.

 

All at once they charged at the Ultharian, shouting their rage and hatred in incomprehensible cursing. With every vestige of childish fear abandoned, she screamed “I’ll…kill…you…ALL!”. She swung the axe in a circle, letting it’s weight carry her, and sliced into the breasts and abdomens of the first few attackers. Blood and entrails spilled from the hissing almost-humans and fell onto Clair’s feet and clothing with the stench of freshly cloven swine. She swung again, this time cleaving three more in a diagonal arch and decapitating another. A satyr grabbed her from behind, but she sent her boot backwards and into it’s genitalia before it could get a good lock. As it folded in on itself, she rounded and fired a round into it’s forehead, dropping it dead on top of her boots. With the next wave of assailants stunned from the thundering cry of the gunshot, she took the passing opportunity to shoot two—one through the chest, one through the shoulder—and swiftly dismember a charging female. As the armless bitch dropped, three more came from three different directions. She rammed the closest one with all her weight and sent in falling back, right into the fire. The green mass of twisting light flared outwards as it consumed it’s heinously screeching meal. She would have savored it’s suffering had the other two not gotten close enough to dig their filthy claws into her. She lifted the axe high and let it fall into the skull of one—letting loose a flow of blood and gray matter that masked it’s shocked features—before lifting it once more to strike the other. To her astonishment, the other satyr managed to grab the axe in mid arch and wrench it from her fists.

 

It smiled an ugly grin as it swung the stolen axe over it’s head in preparation for a killing blow, but when it brought it down Clair had already sidestepped out of the blade’s range, returning an equally ugly smile as she readied her gun for another kill. The satyr roared it’s defiance, swinging the axe towards the girl, who, again, dodged the attack as she swung herself around the satyr’s back and pointed her Glock at it’s shaggy skull. She fired, but missed the satyr by mere inches when it ducked. The bullet, instead of piercing it’s head, clipped it’s right horn and created a wide and very visible crack that rapidly crept across it’s girth. For the final time, the satyr tried bringing the axe down onto Clair, but she miraculously wrapped both hands over an exposed length of it’s handle and used her dwindling strength to stop it’s progress a split second before the satyr had the chance to split her head in half. Clair kicked hard between the thing’s legs and giggled as the satyr squealed like an injured girl, falling on it’s knees and clutching it’s crushed pair. From it’s weakened grasp, Clair snatched and reclaimed her axe with the intention of finishing the brute, but was instantly halted when the satyr grabbed her, one hand falling on her throat and the other tightly wrapping around the one first that still clutched the axe. Seeing that the satyr didn’t plan on finishing it’s fight without it, Clair reluctantly let go of the axe’s handle—thus forfeiting it to her adversary—but quickly sent both of her hands to the satyr’s horns, ensnaring them in white knuckled fists. Before the naked beast had any clue what was going on, Clair dragged down it’s head by the horns, and slammed it’s face into her incoming knee.

 

She could feel it’s nose fracture and collapse against her now blood splattered kneecap, but couldn’t help but feel unsatisfied. She remembered just how much it hurt when Jessica broke her own nose, and, until now, she never would have wanted anyone else to feel that kind of pain. But now—after knowing that there are creatures in this world that would hurt, torture, and literally fuck a young girl to death—she thought a broken nose would never be sufficient to making these savages pay. Not even watching the collective fires and demons of all nine levels of Hell burn and dismember these Lengian satyrs for eternity would ever be enough to quell her intense hatred for them.

 

She desperately wanted to kill more of them. She wanted to wipe their hideous faces and heinous smiles off the face of this fucked up world for fun, and then bring them all back to life just so she can do it all over again.

 

Nothing in Heaven nor in the Dreamlands could give the satyrs the kind of justice she wanted.

 

As the sounds of it’s collapsing nose bone dropped, the satyr groaned and spasmed. She lifted it’s head just long enough to see the blood pouring from it’s crooked nostrils, dripping over grimacing lips and onto the fabric of her trousers.

 

_More. I want more._

 

She jerked the satyr’s head up and brought it crashing back down on her knee, barely savoring the sounds of it’s teeth snapping free from it’s black gums before kneeing it a third time, and then a fourth, then a fifth. With each assault, the satyr’s face become more warped, and her leg became more red.

 

“Can you speak English, you worthless piece of shit?” She hissed through gritted teeth as she repeated her attack a sixth time. “I hope you can, because I want you to clearly hear these last words.”

 

Seventh.

 

“There is no place in existence for the likes of you sorry creatures. How Mother Nature could have even considered letting you miserable fucking bastards walk among the rest of us, I’ll never know.”

 

Eight.

 

“She should have aborted you all. I was taught self control and respect, things a essential to beings worth the precious flesh that makes them up.”

 

Ninth.

 

Tenth.

 

“But you? You shouldn’t be considered alive. All you think about is fucking and killing.”

 

Eleventh.

 

“You see a helpless child, and your first instinct is to make her your bitch? It’s unfortunate I can’t make you mindless, degenerate, ungodly, filthy, perverted motherfuckers extinct. You make me fucking sick.”

 

Twelfth.

 

“How would you like it if some plowed you? Or tore you apart for amusement? You’re about to fucking find out.” She smiled.

 

Thirteenth.

 

Fourteenth.

 

Fifteenth. Upon the sixteenth kneeling, the horn that was left cracked by the grazing bullet snapped free from the satyr’s skull and it gave a pathetic sounding whimper of pain as it’s head awkwardly dangled by the remaining horn, still caught in Clair’s calloused fingers.

 

Still unsatisfied, she finally let the mangled satyr fall to the dirt, the copious and ever flowing blood that poured from within it sparkling in the green firelight as it mixed with gray sands. Though still alive, albeit barely, the satyr made no resistance. It just sat there on it’s hairy back, sobbing through a toothless mouth, broken jaws, cracked lips, a crooked and bloody nose, bruised and acned cheeks, and a pair of swollen black eyes. Clair watched it’s sad performance for a long moment, just waiting for it to do something else. Somewhere deep inside of her, she wanted to feel pity. If it were anything but a satyr, she probably would have felt bad—horribly guilty in fact—but it was a satyr. Being the first time she’s ever seen them, and already they’ve shown how unworthy of love they are.

 

As she stared, she realized that this satyr was the same one who had captured her; the first of it’s kind she had the misfortune of meeting. Sneering, she said in a low purr “I fucking hate you.” She considered shooting it, but figured that kind of death would be too quick and merciful. Instead she dropped the severed horn and grabbed the axe, rolling it around in her palms for a second just so the satyr could know what’s coming. At last, it seemed to notice her brooding over it’s body and responded, not with a hasty retreat, but by slowly putting it’s hands in front of it’s battered face (in a defensive gesture Clair once posed when Jessica had struck her, some four years ago) and started to quietly repeat “Please…please…please…”

 

“So you do speak English.”

 

She didn’t give the creature any time to respond. Without a second thought, she brought the axe down upon it’s crotch, severing it’s prick and testicles in a gruesome splash of blood and flesh. As it screamed in way no soul in Hell could ever hope to match and cradled the gaping wound where it’s manhood was only seconds ago, Clair laughed “I bet it hurts!”

 

Then she severed it’s left arm, furthering it’s screaming, furthering her laughter, and bathing the ground in yet more blood. Kicking aside the discarded limb in spite, she then sliced open it’s belly in a carefully aimed swipe. Guts and more blood spilled forth. The satyr screamed louder. Clair laughed louder.

 

“Now…” She slowly hoisted the axe over her head like an executioner ready to complete her task. With the crimson stained blade pointed heavenward and lingering over her sweat drenched head, she looked one last time at the the predator-turned-prey. Still it screamed, and clawed at the fountain of blood between it’s legs with it’s last arm. The stupid fuck was more concerned with it’s missing dick than the fact that it’s entrails we’re hanging outside it’s body. It was repulsive, but watching her nemesis reduced to nothing and suffering so spectacularly sent a shock of pure ecstasy through her. Ironically, she wondered if sex was even half as blissful as butchering satyrs. Would it even matter if it did? She felt as if no feeling in the world could compare to this moment of vengeance, and in that minute with the axe—dripping in hot blood—readied to strike and end someone’s life, she felt more than alive. She felt like a goddess. “No one will miss you.” She smiled. “Goodbye.”

 

With the quick arching of her back, Clair drove her blade through the throat of her victim. Flesh gave way as easily as the hard bone of it’s spine as the axe separated head from vile body, ending the satyr’s existence. The head—sporting a permanent rictus of true terror—fell back with a wet thump and rolled across the noxious looking puddle of mixed blood and dirt.

 

Clair turned, expecting yet another almost-human to assault her, but none came. All of them lied dead and mutilated across the ground in twisted positions only dead things can accomplish, looking just as harmless as they were gruesome in the flicker of the alien fire. One with a split skull lied there; another over there with it’s guts splayed like disheveled rope; one with a half-cauterized pit between half-closed eyes; and one still cooking and melting in the bonfire. And of course, there was the headless, armless, dickless thing at her feet.

 

For minutes, she stood there—blood covered and panting—unable to take her green eyes off the the mangled fruits of her massacre. How hard it was for her to believe that she had done all of this; a mere child—a simple farm girl—ruthlessly slaughtering an entire family of horned Lengian people.

 

 _No._ She told herself. _They are not people._

 

 _But they looked like people. Just hairy folk with horns and hooves. They had lives and homes, and probably children too._

 

 _They are not people. They wanted to rape me._ As she thought this, she clutched her legs tighter together out of subconscious fear. _They would have violated me._

 

And then, her Dead-Self manifested in her mind, showing off it’s toothy, putrid, ragged-lipped grin. It’s red-on-green eyes conveyed every bit of malice and savagery she had come to expect from her inner specter. Again, it—she or herself—clutched a rotting skull in a blood covered, skeletal claw. She would have thought the skull to be Pickman’s, but it wasn’t. It was that of a satyr. Valoca.

 

“Be proud.” Dead self cackled, dragging the pointed fingertips of it’s—her—other hand across the petrified face of Valoca. “You’ve stolen many-a life, child. Now the way has been opened to become what you were meant to be.”

 

She froze hearing her vile doppelgänger speak for the first time. Clair hated it’s—her own—voice. Every word it said and the way it said them reminded Clair of Nyarlathotep. She had to wonder if her Dead-Self was a permanent imprint that the Crawling Chaos left on her mind. Or just another voice or rouge aspect of herself brought to light by her madness.

 

But that mattered little considering that the Dead-Self still whispered and surfaced memories and taboo thoughts, now that Clair had vented her rage in the cruelest way a child of Ulthar could. Seeing flesh-and-blood creatures hacked to pieces by her own hands had an odd way of remaining her of what she once was, months ago in the far away town she once called home. The girl who once sat cradled and snoozing in the arms of a humble veteran and his wife was distant—as she was before—but now with this act of extreme savagery that any Ultharian native would condemn weighing heavy on her heart and mind, that girl is no longer just far away. That innocent child of Ulthar was now gone for good. What would dear mother and father think of her now? Would would they say seeing their lost daughter standing amidst mutilated carcasses with a drenched axe weighing down a murderous hand? What would Willow think? She remembered how he had torn apart and murdered that hostile militia of Zoogs (she couldn’t clearly remember their name. Dee-yum-eh?) for the sake of protecting both himself and Clair. And, of course, how he had brutally attacked Pickman before he…

 

Clair never thought any less of him for the blood he shed. After all, Willow was the great grand-child of the cats who devoured the old couple in the event that would cause the creation of Ulthar’s famous decree. So why would Clair be unable to tolerate herself knowing she killed a few satyrs to save her own life?

 

No matter which way she chose to see it, she never wanted to be a killer. She never wanted to be the one to weigh the value of anyone’s life, much less be the one to end it. She was born and raised to be no one other than Clair, an odd-looking nobody who lives and works on an old farm in the outskirts of cat-city Ulthar. That lifestyle would have been far from perfect and certainly not glamorous, but at least it would have been safe, peaceful, and full of people (and cats) who loved her for being nothing more than an Ultharian named Clair. And Willow would still be alive too. His eternal absence—if she were to ever see any of her life beyond Kadath—would be a constant reminder of the traumatizing chapter in her meaningless existence, during which she had seen and learned more than any girl of her age should and lost everything that ever mattered to her.

 

Standing in the Lengian dawn, warmed by a fire that looked almost nothing like a fire, and being assaulted by the stench of cloven corpses, she was reminded that nothing will ever be the same again. Not in the real world, and not in her mind. If she had the strength, she could end her suffering with the very gun that Carter so carelessly handed her. Her suicide would be an insult to everything Willow endured alongside her, but she felt utterly hopeless, now more than ever. With this agonizing climax in a seemingly never ending story that desperately needs to end, she had become something less than Clair, the girl from Ulthar. She had become a killer.

 

Alien laughter rang loud in the forefront of her mind, startling her, but she didn’t need to be reminded to whom that laughter belonged.

 

 _Wrong, child._ Nyarlathotep scoffed. Remember well: _You were a killer long before this point._

 

In a shortly relived burst of anger, she shrieked aloud a curse and threw her axe to the ground, wedging the blade deep into the bloodstained earth. “Leave me alone!” She yelled to the sky as if expecting the god to descend from the heavens. “I was never a killer! Not before this, but this is all your fault, not mine! If I could have just stayed home then…then…”

 

_You’re not a killer, you say? Hmm. Indeed. Perhaps you should put the blame on someone else. Even if you are the one who carries the weapon that killed all these poor satyrs. But who would have expected this, anyhow? Is this something you would have dreamed of doing two years ago, when you lived in the delusion of innocence?_

 

“Delusion? What are you…”

 

_Yes. Delusion, child. You lost every vestige of innocence when you…_

 

“Don’t you fucking dare!” Clair shrieked, knowing exactly what the Crawling Chaos intended of reminding her of. By no coincidence, the memory flashed in her mind’s eye along with Nyarlathotep’s vexing words.

 

The god continued: … _When you killed Willow._

 

The scene played all over again in her head. She cried hysterically and Willow was there, mewing and rubbing against her in a futile attempt to be of comfort. Then, in blind anger, she had stabbed the hapless cat in the leg, forcing him to skitter away in fright, trailing blood and shunning the human child he considered his friend. “I…I…Never killed Willow.” Clair said, somehow believing that wasn’t true.

 

_Then why is he not here?_

 

“Fucking Pickman! You know this, you motherfucker!” By now, Clair had realized that she had been clutching her fist tight enough to dig ravines in her palms with her uncut fingernails. She had also noticed that, again, she had been weeping. Without the cold to make her tear’s wet chill obvious, she had been nearly oblivious to it. Not surprisingly, though. The thought of her killing or hurting Willow was too much to bare. “I swore I would never harm him afterwards. Wh…why would you try to convince me otherwise?”

 

 _Because you did, child. You killed Willow. In fact, there never was an “afterwards” for him. The very assault you thought to be a mere infliction of injury was actually a complete slaughter._ Nyarlathotep said with a chuckle.

 

Another memory surfaced. A vision of when Pickman slammed Willow onto the bones covering the Underworld ground and mercilessly impaled him with the very knife that now burned in the center of the satyr’s bonfire, along with the rest of her things. “Pickman killed Willow.” She intoned again, but as she said this, the memory blurred and distorted to the point where it was becoming increasingly impossible to tell real events from fragments of her imagination. It was her knife that killed Willow, but not her hand. Why would a ghoul have possession of her knife? He stole it. Right? Clair tried to bring this fact, among many others, to clarity, but to no avail. “I did not…”

 

_Willow should have stayed behind, you know. But would that have saved the unfortunate feline?_

 

“He came with me. I made him come with me.” Clair spoke slowly to harmonize the storm of conflicting memories and visions within her. “We got lost in the Underworld. We were hounded by ghouls. And then one killed Willow.”

 

_And? Let me see the proof in your head. Let me see the very instant where the man-ghoul supposedly did this deed. Let me see._

 

“I can’t…”

 

_Then your argument is invalid._

 

Again, Clair tried to prove to herself that Willow died by Pickman’s doings and not hers. As the mental storm heightened, the two grim memories—one of her stabbing Willow and the other of Pickman killing him—merged and overlapped, briefly making the miasma that much more messy before the two visions seemed to fall together like puzzle pieces into a clear image that disturbed her to the point of falling to her knees and clawing at her scalp in an idiotic attempt to make her mental hell stop.

 

She saw herself sitting alone and in darkness, crying as she had before. Willow, of course, was there, but for whatever reason the cat was nothing but an indistinct impression without any image. She just knew that Willow, in some shape or form, was there. As she had seen before numerous times, she then picked up the nearest weapon, which happened to be a knife this time instead of a pen. Turning her gaze towards Willow, Clair acknowledged the presence of her sole friend before giving the cat(?) a wide grin. What shocked her so was that the smile she gave Willow was, by no exaggeration, inhuman. In the contours of her healthy looking lips and in the gleam of her emerald eyes, she saw a kind of inhumane savagery that she quickly recognized as the attitude Pickman held towards her and her cat. But in addition, she knew that it was the same kind of savagery she had shown as she had butchered the satyrs; a mindless drive to kill and mutilate. A feeling that was a exhilarating and ecstasy-inducing as it was horrifying. A feeling that had been buried within Clair since birth. With no tears and no farewell, she had driven the knife through the imageless body of Willow and—unlike how she had previously thought the assault played out—ended his life with the same swiftness Pickman had exemplified. Only after his form fell cold and silent did Clair allow herself to do the human thing and cry.

 

The vision ended, along with the confusion in her overworked mind. The only thing left was a fresh memory; a seamless hybrid of her two most horrifying memories—how completely forgotten—that lingered like the ghosts of a recent dream. “I…I…you’re…” Clair tried to put her contradicting thoughts in order, but couldn’t determine whether or not the things she had seen were real. She took a series of deep breaths and said, slowly and quietly, “You’re fucking with me. None of this real. You’re fucking with my head. I know you are.”

 

 _Indeed. You are quite insightful._ Nyarlathotep retorted sarcastically. _I am in your mind and I am, shall we say, playing with your thoughts. And perhaps none of what you believe is real. But that will never change the fact that you are a very, very bad girl, and you played the sole part in the cat’s demise, child._

 

“I never killed Willow.” Clair repeated, sorrowfully. “This is not real.”

 

_Nothing is real. Nothing. Everything you see, hear, touch, and everything you experience is ultimately a pointless illusion from which you you will never escape, lest you loose your grip on reality as you know it and let the hardwired instincts that fester in your reptilian mind take over, so you may let loose the demons that devour your heart and soul. These demons—along with the hatred and fear born from virtual incarceration in your own morality—are all the building blocks of what you may consider insanity. Let the madness consume you child, and you will soon come to understand why you suffer this dream path. Kill and burn in a personal holocaust of ecstasy, Clair! And the more blood you spill, the more you will evolve._

 

Thinking deeply, Clair mindlessly crawled closer to the bonfire in an instinctual attempt at getting warmer and fell on her side in an uncomfortable laying position. She sniffled as she rolled over the Crawling Chaos’ revelations in her mind, considering for the first time accepting his advice.

 

“Are you saying I should just forget Willow and become a…become a monster like you?”

 

_Heh heh. Indeed. I suppose I am a monster in your eyes, aren’t I? But yes, that is exactly what I am saying. Emotions are a human’s biggest weakness, therefore you must forsake them and become…like me. But only until you break and become something more than a human child. Something more than what the uptight burgomasters at Ulthar will allow you to be. Once you reach that stage, savagery and madness will become meaningless._

 

“Am I insane?”

 

_Difficult to say. Mental illness—madness and insanity—is, in a way, a lie. You’re different, but that may never mean you’re, shall we say, a little crazy. Maybe you are insane. But then again, every one else in the world may be insane, while you remain perfectly sane. It doesn’t matter though, Clair. You are hundreds of miles away from another human being who believes it their right to judge your sanity. You only have me—a monster—and a few dead and formally horny satyrs. I don’t think you’re insane at all. You are Clair. Your a worthless dog, just like the others, but you’re still Clair. I may kill you, I may torment you, but in the end you may die as a singular entity who’s soul is free. Free from the bonds that bind you to a world that hated you and free from the illusions that have kept you from seeing the myriad of truths that are the foundation of your essence. These truths, Clair, will lead to utter despair or it will turn you into a god in heart, all depending on how your story ends. Will you die a bawling child, tied down by love and fear, or will you acknowledge your individuality and die a trooper who does not care if the rotting gods above love you, but cares only for yourself and the things that make you up. Choose quickly, because tomorrow morning may be the last time you ever wake up. Become insane, my child, and doors you never knew to exist will become open just for you._

 

She didn’t want to die crying. She remembered well what Carter told her, about standing up to the gods even knowing she had no chance against them. Father taught her to be strong, too, and against her expectations, the lessons paid off. When Jessica insulted her, Clair talked back in blatant defiance. It felt good then, to stand up to the one she hated, just as it felt good to fight against the satyrs who would have otherwise violated her. But the Clair who butchered the satyrs was the same one who stabbed Willow, and so that wasn’t the person Clair wanted to be. It felt good—wonderful in fact—to hate and to let loose a storm of anger, but loving and being with those who loved her—mom, dad, Willow—made her feel like a human being. Right now, locked in the grip of an entity who was far from mortal, that’s all she wanted to be. Human. She’ll have her nose broken a thousand times over just so she could feel the things in life that made her feel pure. But with the blood of Willow on her hands, how could she ever consider herself pure again? No matter what, she thought, she will never be a true human, and therefore will never be innocent. But after everything she put Willow through, and everything father and Carter did for her, she could never dream of succumbing to the voices of Nyarlathotep. Or Dead-Self or the Lich-Daemon. Because Willow died for her, she’ll die for him, being both strong and human.

 

“Go away, Nyarlathotep.” Clair said, closing her eyes in preparation for sleep. “I’ll never become what you want me to become. I’ll never deny that I’m afraid of you, but no matter what I will always hate you more than I fear you. If you sincerely believe I’ll bend over for you then, for once, you’re sorely wrong.”

 

Nyarlathotep, to Clair’s concealed astonishment, returned with a low chuckle. Not a chuckle carrying vexation or anger, but carrying a sense of accomplishment, as if the Crawling Chaos wanted her to say what she said. _We’ll see child. In the meantime, I’ll be waiting for you. And when you come, I’ll be sure to give you a proper welcome. Sleep well Clair._

 

With that, the god’s haunting voice departed, leaving her blissfully alone and silent.

 

Sleep well. She rolled the words casually in her mind as she let the bonfire’s heat grip her and lull her into a daze she hadn’t felt in days. Sleep well; such a nice thing to say. It would have been less surprising if his words were laced with condescending snideness or some kind of suggestive malice, but instead he sounded very sincere. As if after everything he put her through, he finally felt the need to let her sleep in peace. She could hardly believe that Nyarlathotep was capable of being so polite. It a shameful kind of way, but it made her feel a little warm inside, like burying the hatchet with someone she hated. An innately evil being saying something like “sleep well”, it was shocking, but on second thought, she supposed he said that just so he could confuse her. She still, after all, considered it impossible for Nyarlathotep to feel anything even remotely like compassion.

 

The stench of the dead satyrs came to full focus once more, bringing to mind the terrified face of the one she had emasculated, eviscerated, and decapitated. But that didn’t disturb her as much as the memory of how she had laughed at their suffering. Like a mad girl, she had not only murdered, but enjoyed every second of it.

 

It was shameful.

 

She let out a few chocked sobs before resolving to banishing the visions by singing an old shanty her grandma taught her. She couldn’t get the tune nor the lyrics right from the way her voice cracked, but at least the little slice of home did something to bring her out of Leng, if even for a second.

 

She remembered, long ago, she had sung that exact song while her and Willow were in the Enchanted Wood. It seemed so long ago, but even so she could recall how happy she was at the beginning of her journey. And she remembered how happy Willow was too.

 

All she wanted was to return to that. To return to him. To be happy again.

 

Her last waking words that day, before falling into a dreamless sleep, were “I’m sorry Willow.”


	26. The End of the Path

She was closer to dying now that ever before, and this she could tell not only by the intense numbing of her entire body, but by the frequent locking of her limbs—particularly her legs, on which she could barely stand at this point—and the drastic slowing of her wits. More than once she had tripped over a large rock she had somehow failed to notice or merely stubbled over her own feet as if she had completely forgotten how to walk. Every time she would hit the ground as limp and as hard as when Valoca fell, and every time she would lie there for several moments believing she would never be able to get back up. Yet every time, she found the strength to stand and continue again. Idle thoughts had been left behind some hours ago, leaving only simple, primal motives and instincts to linger in her mind; all of which focusing solely and intently on her desperate need for food and fire, and the haunting consequences of neither coming to her aid in time.

 

Through the course of her quest, she had continuously thought that her life was, without question, in perpetual peril. Now, she sincerely believed that she was going to die at any given second. Too exhausted to do anything else, she simply accepted that.

 

Aside from her obvious ailment—freezing—a large portion of her infliction was due to starvation. Like everything else she previously possessed, what little food and water she had were destroyed in the satyr’s bonfire. She even tried scouring the crude houses left behind by the deceased inhabitants for anything edible. Indeed, she had found an insulated trunk stuffed with multiple cuts of meat that she couldn’t identify at first—all of which seemed well preserved and very appetizing—but then she noticed that the one-roomed building in which the trunk sat smelled of rotting flesh, an odor she remembered clearly from her time in the Underworld. It passed her mind that the smell could easily have originated from the very cuts she sought, but from experience, she knew that it bore a clear resemblance’s to the rank of a dead human. She wasn’t too dull to put two and two together. The meat she had almost consumed was harvested from a human being.

 

Recoiling in horror, she had stumbled out of the deserted house, fell to a kneeling position just outside the door, and vomited up what little was in her stomach. She sat silent for a moment, breathing deeply over the viscous puddle next to her bloody knees, stomach acid still burning the back of her throat. The primal hunger for meat resulted by the voidingof her stomach almost compelled her to go back and take the pieces of human anyways, and maybe even convince herself that her would-be meal was anything but human. But without much effort, she gained enough self control to resist and instead swiped a swolen leather drinking pouch. The contents therein smelled like a nauseating concoction of piss and mold, but after a reluctantly executed taste test, she found that the liquid (she prayed it was only water) didn’t taste half as bad as it smelled. Not nearly as good as river water, but by far more edible than d’hole meat. Or human meat.

 

She departed from the satyr village with the few possessions she still had—including her Glock and three bullets—plus Valoca’s axe and her surprisingly unfrozen drinking pouch (she curiously wondered if the pungent odor came from some additive that prevented the water from becoming ice) both strapped to a shoulder belt she had hastily thrown together from a few rags she cut from a set of window drapes. As she left the parameter, she avoided looking directly at all the bodies across the ground. She hated them for feeding on humans, yet still felt an overwhelming sense of shame for this massacre. She tried offering herself some assurance by thinking “They deserved to die” but at that very thought she couldn’t see herself as anything but a psychotic bringer of death, perfectly mirroring the Dead-Self specter that continued to haunt her thoughts.

 

And now, here she was. On the brink of death yet still marching on. In her weakened state, a small part of her wished she would have just swallowed her morality and eaten the human cuts. They were already dead anyhow. What would be the harm in letting them die in vain? Clair herself was about to drop dead, so why not put otherwise useless carcasses to good use?

 

Twice now, in the span of a few hours, she had to check her own thoughts and recognize her more animalistic urges. Even considering eating another human was almost as bad as being the one to execute them, or so she thought. Like mass murder, that was something she wouldn’t dare consider doing. Yet, since she did commit mass murder, she remained fully aware that she could’ve given in and do the unthinkable. Again. Clair imagined feasting until her strength was fully regained, but only to feel an undying sense of shame at the unforgivable act of cannibalism. She lingered on the possibility that she could have harvested from the dead satyrs, but for several intimate reasons that idea was out of the question.

 

As the certainty of death by starving began to really weigh on her, she entered an expanse of dusk shrouded land, separated in two by a wide and pitch-black ravine that zig-zagged through the ground like a silent river that teemed with void instead of water. Unlike any other ravine she had ever seen, this one was bordered on both sides by hundreds upon hundreds of mounds of upthrusted boulders and chunks of earth. These mounds, coupled with the ravine, gave Clair the eerie impression that the plateau was literally split with a blade of god-like proportions, the resulting debris avalanched aside and left in it’s wake like collateral wreckage. So lost in her own thoughts, Clair did not notice she had strolled dangerously close to the ravine’s edge until she was assaulted by a slow but persistent wind that blew upwards from the ravine’s depths. The anomalous breeze seized her attention immediately and dragged it down to where she noticed herself standing with one boot centimeters away from the sharp drop-off. Though her judgment was heavily clouded and fatigued, she still managed to do the sensible thing and back away, yet she neglected the rocky outcroppings that layered the ground and tripped over them, landing right on her back with a loud thud. The severely uneven surface sent uncountable jagged points jabbing into her ribs, spine, ass, thighs, shoulders, and—most painfully—the back of her skull. Ordinarily, she would have feared a broken bone or a fatal wound, but this time the though only dwelled for a few casual seconds before dissipating in the virtual nothingness in her head. Even more uncomfortable than that, however, was the way she landed on the axe, which was fixed diagonally across her back. The narrow handle digging into the dip of her spine was enough to handle, but her left shoulder blade stuck the flat of the axe’s head with enough force to send a sharp pain through the rest of her shoulder and upper back. Like the pain in her head, that was quickly numbed in the cold. She might have considered herself lucky the blade’s edge didn’t cleave her.

 

She stayed laying down for some time, futilely imagining her bed of rocks and metal was a bed of goose down, and imagining the bleak and cloud smothered sky as a less bleak ceiling that—though comforting to look at—did nothing to protect from the wind and cold. All so she could feel a little more safe (or a little less threatened) than she was now.

 

Like a cat entranced by a pendulum, she simply stared up at the intricate designs enmeshed within the overcast above, moving bloodshot eyes across pointless patterns and plumes for no other reason than to distract herself from the slowly encroaching hands of the black, which continued to steal away her bodily sensation with every passing minute.

 

_Will I die from starvation? Or hyperthermia?_

 

The thought crossed her mind before, but now it was all she could think about. Freeze? Starve? Both? Neither? She liked the thought of survival. It would be a joyous thing to, at some future date, look back and ponder on the miracle of surviving the bowels of Leng. But ever since she came to terms with the “death” of her gods, she had forsaken the idea of miracles and had come to see despair and pain as the natural order of things. The things that happen to her now is reality. Survival is a useless fancy.

 

Was she sad? Very. But not by death, but by her physical and mental isolation, and the utter violation of everything she would have ever wanted to be. She wanted to be pure, but knowing of the horrible things that lurk just beneath the veil of her own soul—her savagery, her hate, her ecstatic need to kill—she knew that could never be. Nevertheless, that mattered little. Standing on death’s edge has a way of making one detach oneself from pride, shame, humility, and all other emotions having anything to do with self image. Knowing she is now destined to expire, she was forced to wonder what was the point of being a human being buried in fear, anguish, and self loathing. What was the point of being anything? Why be Clair?

 

Her head robotically rolled to one side as her sluggish pondering continued and she caught sight of Kadath, ever brooding in the North. It stood there—black, jagged, and gargantuan—with it’s visibility fading in and out behind the perpetual dust storms that arose from black earth and billowed and rolled towards blacker skies, plumes expanding and reaching like a massive, amorphous entity giving the veiled stars in the heavens a silent shriek. When her thoughts drifted to the always pressing question of what Nyarlathotep will do to her there, she could almost fancy hearing the dark messenger’s snide, mocking voice pulsing out of the night veiled slopes of that mountain and traveling on the wind across the plateau towards her and her only. The things Nyarlathotep could say now would surely be as cryptic and condescending as ever, especially as the girl lies dying on the cold ground on the edge of a canyon that almost swallowed her. Pathetic, she thought, simply pathetic.

 

Dread pierced her as her attention lingered on Kadath. To avoid looking at it for another second, she rolled her head in the other direction wherein sat the deserted satyr village, the decaying metal tower, and the black wall from which she emerged. All vanished over the Southern horizon long ago. In an abstract sense, everything else she had the privilege or misfortune of experiencing was also in that direction: Celephaïs and it’s beautiful nightly coast, Serannian, the Cerenerian, the Underworld, The Furtive Siren and her stoner crew, the Zoogs of the Enchanted Wood, the folk of Thran, Carter and his lovely home, that asshole Pickman, and above all else, the only place she could ever consider home; the town of Ulthar beyond the River Skai, wherein lived her family and her friends. Wherein lived her fading memories. In death she’ll loose all emotions concerning self image, but in death she’ll also suffer the pain of loosing the things she had once loved and cherished. All of that now mercilessly pried from her, and cast into the domain of memory where it will be doomed to dissolve to nothingness, just like the previous years of her life.

 

Willow. Dear, Willow. She was at least glad he wasn’t suffering the way she was now. Clair remembered what Carter once said about her and Willow being eternally connected in spirit and living on together past the edge of the black. Will she see him again, once the transition from mortality to oblivion is finished? That remained to be seen, but with what little faith she had left she prayed to whatever force was listening to her at that moment that she could have the chance to correct what she had done and hold Willow once more, both of them alive and happy.

 

A faint glimmer of motion caught her attention, pulling her blurry eyes to a particular point in the sky, far in the East. Having seen it once before, she could tell the moving pinprick was actually an avian similar to the one she glimpsed near the deserted tower, only this time it was slightly closer and, instead of doing a circular buzzard dance, it was steadily advancing in her direction, gliding slowly through the night. Perhaps it smelled her presence, or noticed the mess she made of the satyrs, and decided to make the best of this opportunity. Only briefly did she wonder if being picked apart and devoured piece by bloody piece by a massive bird was any better that waiting to freeze to death. It would be painful—very much so—but quicker. When that thought left her, she began thinking on the possibility that being eaten was a form of karma, maybe for killing Willow, or the satyrs. If it were indeed karma, then Clair wouldn’t be able to think of a better example of just how shitty the universe truly is. The Elder Gods keep a blind eye turned on her this entire time while they allow every manner of assault to befall her, but when she finally fucks up then they decide to initiate their idea of justice. Clair couldn’t really complain though. She could say with some dignity that she might have deserved her untimely death.

 

The bird’s approach was slow, and it became clear to Clair that it would take an hour or so for it to arrive. When it does come, will she fight back? She thought that highly unlikely. She could barely scrounge the strength to stand and march, so how could she hope to hurt a creature that’s probably twice her size?

 

She propped her upper body on her elbows with the same lethargy one would show waking up in the morning. Aside from her back muscles making some protest, the simple act was surprisingly easy. She then assumed a sitting position, then clumsily rose to her feet, standing imperfectly erect while she tried to equalize her severely impaired sense of balance. When she was sure she could maintain her standing position, she took a short glance at the advancing flier, and then continued her walk, cautiously treading the warped and rocky ground with careful footsteps.

 

She took no more than twelve paces before she tripped again. When her palms and cheek struck the ground, she gave a loud curse as she felt thin layers of skin tear and give way to droplets of blood. She looked towards her feet where she noticed that, curiously, her toes weren’t hooked on a crack or outcropping, but on some odd purplish stick that almost looked like a tree root horizontally laying in the space between two slabs of stone. With her mind still heavily clouded over, it took her a minute to add up the facts. Then, she stood perplexed at realizing that it couldn’t be a root that she had tripped over, given that there was not a single plant—alive or dead—within kilometers of the ravine. Somewhat spurred in her curiosity, she hoisted herself on her knees and waddled closer to get a better look. The first strange thing that struck her about the supposed “root” was that it was covered in a score of thick, black hairs that lined the length of the thing in a pattern that might have otherwise suggested thorns. Another detail she saw was that it was perfectly straight. Which was to say, much straighter than any normal tree limb or root should have been. When she noticed that one end terminated in a sharp point not far from where she sat and the other end ran over the side of the ravine and sharply bent downward into the depths, she started to think her anomaly subject resembled the limb of a giant insect.

 

Almost instantly, she remembered a certain bedtime story her parents used to regale; a story that was largely concerned with the half-fabled horde of bloated, violet arachnids that dwelled beneath the frozen surface of Leng.

 

She quickly shot to her feet and took a few hazardously placed steps backwards, realizing that she now stood dangerously close to a portion of a titanic spider, which surely waited just over the lip of ravine. She wanted to run, but whether by sheer fright or by her failing leg muscles, she was unable to move at any pace faster than a few slow footsteps. She unfastened the axe from her harness and kept it in a ready position, while one hand dropped to her Glock to reassure that it was there. Three bullets. That’s all she had, and she prayed that it would be enough to save her.

 

Just as she thought the beast was asleep and unaware of her presence, she watched with a fear frozen heart as the spindly limb twitched in the slightest, stilled for a silent and agonizingly long ten seconds, and then slowly—gracefully, dreadfully—raised out of it’s crack and leveled it’s knife-like tip to the sky, towering over the fractured ground like a chitinous, bruise colored crane. The way it moved reminded Clair too easily of the gradual way the hair-thin limbs of a tiny, relatively harmless spider would move as it crawled about it’s web. Only this was much larger; a nightmarishly huge limb that could have been no less than five meters in length.

 

The leg froze in midair and lingered. Meanwhile, Clair took a few more anxious steps backwards, keeping the axe held forward and her eye’s locked on the Leng spider’s leg.

 

She squealed a little when the leg came quietly down upon the ground, not a single sound being made as the sharpened foot staked it’s place into the earth.

 

Another violet member rose above the ravines lip, so slowly and silently that Clair didn’t even notice it until half it’s hairy length was stabbing into the frigid air. The second limb then came down and fastened to the ground, it’s angled posture perfectly mimicking that of the other leg.

 

Run! Run! Fucking fun, dammit! Clair screamed inside her own head, as two more massive legs came creeping into visibility, her trepidation spiked once more and she could do nothing more than shake in fear. As the third and fourth legs grounded and began flexing in unison with the others to move the spider’s unseen mass onto the surface, Clair remembered that she faced off against a d’hole, zoogs, ghouls, and satyrs, and survived. So, reasonably, she had little to fear. She tried to believe she would survive again. But the key difference between those times and now was that, in this moment, she was starving, weak, and exhausted; a crippled prey that could do nothing more than throw a suddenly heavy axe.

 

 _No!_ She told herself. _I can survive this! I’ve survived before, I will do it again!_

 

The spider’s ascent was predictably slow, but as it made itself evident it made a low whine that warbled through and shattered the silence of the stagnant air like a hellish siren, foreshadowing the coming a it’s true horror.

 

When the spider’s purple hued head—supported by the octet of thin legs that shuffled over the cracked ground with haunting grace—leered at her over the lip of the ravine with an innumerable cluster of pitch-black, soulless, expressionless, marble-like eyes, Clair was powerless to suppress a scream. As she senselessly stumbled backwards, the Leng spider answered her wail with a high pitched roar that bellowed out of it’s convoluted set of mandibles and fangs. Then, like a mad and horribly deformed cougar, it darted across the twelve meters that separated it from Clair, folding back it’s sickle shaped fangs that ceaselessly dripped viscous venom of the most disgusting shade of yellow.

 

Watching that creature of pure nightmare come at her, Clair was reminded what it was like to truly fear. It was one thing to fear being raped, or fear being lost in the timeless void outside of the universe—it was even different fearing the unknown motives of Nyarlathotep—but knowing that she was ultimately powerless against a gargantuan menace that was obviously at the top of the food chain awoke a primal brand of terror within her; the same fearful impulses that lurked within the mind of a rabbit doomed to be ground to pulp in the maw of a wolf. It was a very simple, normal kind of fear common to every mortal entity, but in this instance her predator was a creature that might as wellhave skittered out of the most diseased of her childhood bedtime stories. A true figment of the darkest faces of human imagination made material.

 

Instead of running, she screamed (something almost like a battle cry, but not quite) again and swung the axe as the spider’s grotesque face came within feet of hers. She would have expected the blade to slice off a fan or one of the slowly wiggling pedipalps, but she only succeeded in making a shallow groove that weeped pinkish blood. The spider recoiled slightly and made a hiss of annoyance, snapping it’s multifaceted jaws at the Ultharian. Clair quickly back-stepped several paces and positioned the axe in front of her torso to block the incoming assault. Against her expectations, the spider boldly lurched forward and locked it’s fangs onto the axe. The fangs, to her horror, literally sank into the weathered surface of the steel with the ease of a knife slicing through bread, and with a downward jerk of it’s head, wrenched the weapon from her fist and threw it to the ground between it’s legs. Teeth bared once more, the arachnid came at it’s prey, letting loose a shriek that curdled her blood and reeked of decay and venom.

 

She back-stepped once more, this time reaching for her gun. She didn’t even have the chance to aim before the spider raised it’s foremost legs above her head and instantly brought them down upon her.

 

She swung to one side as quickly as she could, but in that instant she felt a searing pain strike her left calf and a warm, wet sensation spread down the lower half of that same leg. She fell and hit the ground hard, feeling the injured muscle agonizingly scrape against her shattered shin bone and continue to leak blood. The disturbing feel of foreign material within her own leg and the unrelenting tug against it was enough to let her know what had happened well before she had a chance to see it with her own shocked, fear stricken eyes: the spider had driven it’s saber-like foot into her left leg—bathing the dirt beneath with her own blood—and proceeded to drag her closer to it’s awaiting mouth.

 

Forcing herself to forget her possibly fatal injury, Clair readied her Glock again, this time aiming it at the cluster of eyes. Once again, her attempt was thwarted when the spider gave her a sudden, harsh jerk that rocked the entirety of her body the very same second she pulled the trigger. With a roar that seemed to force a flinch out of both predator and prey, the bullet rocketed forward, but missed it’s mark by feet as it vanished into the Lengian night sky instead of the spider’s head.

 

“Fuck!” She screamed. One of three bullets, wasted.

 

She aimed again as the spider positioned Clair beneath it’s reared fangs, pointing the barrel into the cluster of teeth beneath it’s head. She thought for a short lived moment that she had a chance at ending this struggle, but was quickly proven wrong as the spider pulled it’s leg free from hers and swiped it across her whitened face, cutting a deep and bloody grove across her cheek and bow, and in the same movement struck the hand that held the gun, forcing the weapon to fly out her palm and land on the ground, just out of arms reach. Cursing again, she reflexively kicked her useable leg into the spider’s underside, making it jerk upwards slightly, but still stunning it long enough to allow her to roll onto her belly and reach for her dislodged weapon. As her fingers came within grazing distance of the Glock’s rubber handle, the spider let loose another shriek and drove it’s leg through the back of the hand that reached for the gun, pinning it to the ground and forcing an agonized scream out of Clair’s throat. She could feel the flesh and bones within breaking and being pried apart as the spider drove it’s appendage in deeper, boring not only through her hand but into the ground, digging up a bounty of cold dirt that infested the opened wound. Just as suddenly as it impaled, the spider lifted it’s leg and freed her hand, now left completely disabled by the yawning tunnel in her palm that leaked an unstoppable flow of blood that bathed the entirety of her hand and upper arm, as well as her coat. She rolled over on her back again, keeping her injured hand tightly wrapped in the other in a pointless attempt to stave the bleeding. As she grimaced, and clenched her teeth and eyes to keep from crying, she spider hoisted it’s bruise-purple bulk onto it’s four rearmost legs while lifting it’s other four limbs in preparation for the killing blow. It’s fangs and mandibles and pedipalps contorted and moved in a way that, from Clair’s heavily clouded visual perception, that resembled a wicked, sadistic grin. Just like the one her Dead-Self wore.

 

Clair could have allowed herself to die then and there, if for nothing else than to end the endless cycle of misery Nyarlathotep was putting her through, but with what little willingness to live she had left she sent her remaining hand darting towards the Glock with a swiftness and abruptness she would have otherwise thought impossible. With blood slicked fingers tightly gripping the handle and trigger, she aimed her weapon into the maw of the spider for the last time…

 

But before she could fire, before she could kill her predator, before she could fully register what had happened, two bladed legs came down upon a single point in her torso, and silently sliced through her abdomen, cutting with ease through her skin, guts, and spine.

 

Her mind went blank. The world and everything in it—The hellacious cold, the ichor of bloody dirt at her back, the victorious Leng spider—grew incalculably distant as her senses recoiled with the fatal strike dealt to her. Her eyesight became hazy and spotted with colorless cataracts. Her hearing was drowned in a sudden ringing and in the rapid thrum of her rushing blood. Her entire body—once unbearably cold but surely alive—lost all sensation save for the indescribable pain centered on her stomach. Her mind—once racing with a thousand dark and chaotically tangled thoughts—lost the ability to fathom any idea or concept other than the single thought: I’m dead. Her breath—once running wild in a panic—slowed.

 

In her state of absolute numbness, she had no way of truly knowing that she still managed to lift the gun and fire it, several times, into the mouth of the spider. Two deafening, fiery cracks—one for each of the two bullets remaining within the gun’s cartridge—shattered the silence between her and her prey, but she could barely hear them. She could only sense the lightest of tremors coursing through her cold form, accompanied by a duo of distant booms that impacted her no more than the whispering of a mouse would have affected her in life.

 

The bullets tore their path through the spider’s head, shattering the feral brain within and exiting with in an eruption of chitin shards, blood, and venom. Howling a ghostly death rattle, the spider stumbled in seemingly every direction, ripping it’s limbs out of Clair’s body. The resulting pain, though unimaginable in it’s intensity, did something to restore some of her awareness. As liters of blood spilled freely from the now gaping cavern in her stomach, she felt her organs shift and dislodge, and the frigid air gripping and nipping at the portions of her body that should have never needed to suffer the cold of Leng, let alone the open air outside her skin. Blood ejected up Her esophagus, and welled in her throat and mouth until it flowed past her lips. While the spider fell to ground in a heap—limps and mandibles twitching pathetically before falling still forever—she screamed in agony, clutching both hands against her puncture and dragging her rapidly locking digits across the freezing blood staining her jacket and skirt. The truly horrifying part of this was feeling her fingers enter the wound and brushing against the gelatinous, frayed edges of her damaged intestine.

 

Gradually, she managed to raise her upper body and prop it up on her hands. She looked at the dead arachnid that laid like a violet mound on the dusty ground, hairy legs turned this way and that in a tangled bunch. The cluster of eyes, though dead and as cold as they were in life, stared at the half-dead girl lying near. In a way, they almost look melancholy, as if it were rueing not only it’s own death but the loss of a fresh meal.

 

She breathed deeply, and tried to stand but both legs were not only unresponsive but lacked all feeling. Even the gaping wound in her shin bared no pain. She was paralyzed. The spider severed her spine, and now everything below her opened abdomen has become limp and as dead as the rest of her would soon be. She rolled over on her stomach instead, planting both palms on the ground to brace herself against the blood soaked earth. She loudly hissed in pain and began shedding tears as dirt agitated the wounds on both hand and torso, bringing to life an unrelenting sting that affected every exposed muscle and bone.

 

Inside Clair’s mind, a little voice told her to stop and simply lie down to die. It would have been logical, because now she had no weapons, no food, no legs, and a fatal wound that perpetually spilled forth her vital fluids onto the very surface of Leng like a pagan sacrifice, but why should she listen to logic when logic was never to be found, neither at her side, in her environment, nor—most of all—in her diseased mind? Defying the voice—the now screaming voice—she began dragging herself across the ground, trembling hands digging into the hard ground and pulling behind them the pale carcass that barely clung to life. The dirt still irritated the open wounds, which left in their wake crimson trails, and she could only move at about three feet per minute, but she was nevertheless determined to reach her goal. To fulfill the purpose of her quest and to assure that Willow had not died for nothing. She hoped neither him nor herself would die for nothing. For her own sake, and to stave the mortal terror that came at the edge of death, she tried telling herself that her injuries were minor; only minor cuts that will very shortly, clot, mend, scar, and heal. They were only cuts. They needed to be, because she needed no more obstacles in her path. Kadath was so close. Still, it lingered there in the clouded, black horizon, appearing as a nighted spike in her failing vision. From that mountain, she could feel the tug that had been gripping her this entire time, from home to here. It still urged her forth, silently but surely dragging the dying girl towards it’s nightmare-blasted slopes and castle crowed peak with a subtle call that existed in silence somewhere within the abyss of her damaged mind.

 

Perhaps Clair was insane, because in that moment—as her shivering form lost every feasible sign of life, soul slipping right out of the flesh—she sincerely believed she could make it to Kadath and answer Nyarlathotep‘s call. She should have died before, but did not. That can’t change now. Not when the very object of her journey lied right in front of her.

 

She stopped as fresh pulses of pain shocked her from the inside out. Her heart was beating so fast, and in doing so was pushing out a torrent of cold blood. Her breath stalled for a moment as more blood shot into her throat and began to pour out of her lips in thin streams, pooling right in front of her slightly raised head. This time, the metallic taste lingered on her tongue and in between her teeth.

 

She looked again at Kadath. She should have expected it, but to her dismay she found she was no closer to her goal. No matter how far she walked or crawled, that damnable mountain still seemed hundreds of kilometers away. She propped her upper body up as much as she could and stared Northward for several moments, slowly coming to the conclusion that her arrival there would never be possible. What was Nyarlathotep doing up there now? Looking down from his castle as his prey—his fucking toy—lied dying in the middle of a quintessential hell? Was he laughing now? Is he happy? Was this all he wanted from her? Is this why she was pulled from her home? Is this why Willow died? Is this why she will die? Just so some asshole deity could get his jollies watching this hilarious anticlimax?

 

Clair knew now that’s all she was to him. A short lived and mildly entertaining show. There was no purpose in any of this. All thirteen years of her worthless life came to a conclusion here, where she will live and die for no reason. 

 

She screamed—not in despair, sorrow, but in unfettered, inhuman fury—as these notions settled in. Her shrill and weary voice spread over the landscape, ever echoing and gaining volume in an atmosphere devoid of resistance. It became louder as it climbed the night sky and called the attention of every living entity—be it shantak or almost-human—within miles of where the girl sat. For a whole minute, the mournful silence of Leng was shattered in a human cry teeming with hatred, anger, and regret. Slowly, her shriek died in her throat, and with it the distress at knowing her worthless status.

 

When Clair finally fell silent, she let herself collapse on her side, her entire body falling as limp as her legs. She could still see Kadath, but it became a dark smudge in her eyes as they started overflowing with tears. A blood laced sob escaped her throat, then another, and then another, until she started to cry.

 

As icy tears cut into her white cheeks, her ragged lungs heaved their final breaths. All at once, all senses save for sight ceased and deprived her of the sensation of being in a physical environment. It felt to her like she simply floated, surrounded by no atmosphere nor surface nor gravity, but merely a blanket of void. Yet despite this, she felt cold. It was a chill that originated not from outside, but from within. She no longer had any body heat, now that every organ seemed to have completely stopped in their endless momentum. Nothing about it felt right, but it was no longer horrifying. This feeling engulfing her being was, if nothing else, comforting. The pains of her injuries no longer wracked her, and neither did the fatigue-born cramps in her members.

 

She could still see, however, and it was the last connecting thread she had with the world. Kadath still lingered within her field of vision, and all she could do was stare at it.

 

 _Have I escaped?_ She wondered. _Is my death indeed a permanent respite from the suffering that Nyarlathotep chose to bless me with? If this is punishment, then for the wrongdoings I’ve committed to Willow I am willing to accept it. Just so long as I get to see him again, and maybe amend the things that went so wrong._

 

If her heart was still capable of beating, it would have throbbed with deadly intensity as she watched Kadath and the bleak shades of gray and black of Leng gradually give way to total darkness that spoke of oblivion. Following the failure of her eyes, her oxygen deprived mind slowed to a crawl, giving the illusion of time slowing down.

 

It’s just like going to sleep, she thought as she brought her blood caked hands between her head and the ground beneath, simulating a pillow. That was the final movement of her body before her thoughts dwindled to virtual nothingness, clinging only to the basic awareness of her existence.

 

If she could still see or feel, maybe she would have been aware of the black form that descended from the night on silent wings, extending taloned claws towards the lifeless, peacefully still body of Clair. If she could have been aware, she would have let the sudden entity take her anyhow, for she no longer needed that weary carcass. In oblivion, it would never matter if that fragile body was torn to shreds and devoured. It never even mattered in life.


	27. The End of the Path — Side II

Abruptly, she awoke. The image of the enormous Leng spider still lingered within her mind—flashing into full and grotesque clarity every time she would blink—and the sound of the Glock firing still rang in her ears. Her return to consciousness wasn’t accompanied by the expected weight of drowsiness, but rather she was fully aware, fully awake, and most startlingly without any pain or any form of physical or mental ailment. She felt completely fine. In her comatose state, she must have lost a lengthy amount of time, but nonetheless it seemed as if her confrontation with the spider transpired no more than ten minutes ago. As did her own death.

 

The horror at her own passing was far from subsiding. In addition to the lingering thoughts of her mortal fabric being torn and blood freezing and drying forever, she was assaulted by the anomaly that that apparently did not happen.

 

Rising to her feet with the minimal effort one wouldn’t expect from a dead girl, she examined her new surroundings, first taking note of the fact that she was no longer freezing. Nothing was. Instead of the ever stirring Lengian air that brushed against her skin like a brush lined with knives, she was comforted by a fair and mildly warm atmosphere, with no winds to disrupt the omnipotent calm. By no exaggeration, it felt just like standing in the middle of a meadow during a Spring afternoon. Not entirely pleasant, but compared to where she was it was a enough of a blessing to bring a smile to her face. Then she noticed that, as expected, she was no longer in Leng, however she was at a loss to say where she now stood. She stood on a kind of circular platform or dais, several meters wide and made of a single piece of onyx, seemingly carved from the ground. All across the ash colored floor stretched a mosaic of interwoven etchings and carvings, depicting entities as varied as they were ambiguous. Amongst it all was shown a creature apparently composed of interlocking sphere, and another made from a mad but deliberate jumble of lines and angles. One, though vaguely evocative of a satyr or some obscene goat whore, seemed to be composed entirely of tentacles and teeth. There were others, but the more she examined the depicted pantheon, the more these god-beings became indistinct from one another. Instead, her attention shifted to the world outside the hazy edges of the dais. Where one would have seen a sky or a landscape there was only an omnipotent fog. Or at least, that’s what it appeared to be. It was neither dark nor night, material nor ethereal, distant nor near. Only a dome of utter indistinctness that surrounded her stage like a badly smudged backdrop.

 

Obviously, she was nowhere in her own world, and she even considered that, after all, she was dead and had moved on to purgatory or Hell of whatever strange realm lost souls go to haunt. Her belief in this was backed up by the fact that she was completely uninjured, both legs—the ones she found herself miraculously standing on—completely functional and her stomach completely free of a gaping wound. In it’s place was only a large, semicircular scar that surrounded her navel. Other than that and the blood rimmed hole torn into her blouse, there was absolutely no sign that she had ever suffered a fatal injury. Looking at her right hand, she found that the wound thereon was also gone, it’s former existence marked only by a similarly shaped scar carved into the flesh of her palm. Again, she gleefully noted that there was no pain as she flexed her fingers and slowly swayed her upper body, in the same act flexing a spine that should have been cut in two.

 

“Gods,” she silently gasped, unable to believe the miracle of her complete recovery. “How is this possible?”

 

“It’s the healing aura.” Rasped a familiar voice from seemingly nowhere. “Nothing dies here if He doesn’t will it.”

 

Startled but not feeling at all threatened, she rounded on her heels to face the direction of the speaker. Shockingly, she saw something there she had somehow failed to see prior. Something as majestic as it was horribly suggestive. From the edge of the onyx dais ascended a massive staircase sculpted from an unmarred mass of shining obsidian. On either side edge of each step rose twisting statues of varying forms, obviously three dimensional renditions of the same amorphous entities that adorned the floor. Despite having no human appendage to suggest so, Clair was under the impression that the creatures were dancing, albeit more mournfully than joyously. And although there was nothing even remotely resembling a musical instrument in their grasp, the statues seemed to have been caught in the act of a musical performance. All effigies were uniformly as black and as lustrous as the stairs, making their finer features obscure, except for the globular details Clair took to be eyes. Those were made from some kind of brightly glowing iridescent glass which, in contradiction, emitted a flood of crimson light that bathed the stairs yet did nothing to diminish their dark hues. Over the base of the stairs hung a massive arch made from intricately woven girders and vines of silver, which took on the color of blood in the red light. At the arch’s zenith, framed by an arabesque circle of red-glowing sparkling tendrils, sat a night-black crystalline orb in which was permanently burned a familiar symbol: a blood red inverted pentagram, with twin horns raised aggressively to the heavens, a single leg pointing to the ground where Clair stood in unease, and a curious rune set in the center of the five tapering rays.

 

As dreadfully fantastic as this all was, what seized her attention were the two figures seated on the lowermost step beneath the silver-crimson arch. One was so shocking that it almost forced a yelp out of her. Whatever it was, it seemed to be a hybrid between a malnourished man and a bat, with rubbery skin so black that it made the creature almost indistinguishable from the stairs. It crouched like a gargoyle, with a barbed tail circling it’s haunches, ribbed wings folded against a hunched back, and a horned, faceless head that silently stared at the girl from across the dais without expression. Next to this thing was a creature much less frightening and more assuring. It was an old human man, crouched on the last step like the black beast next to him with arms crossed over his knees, looking somber in the bloody light. From one hand dangled a lit cigar that spat forth a ghostly column of smoke that snaked through the red atmosphere. This smoke, along with the red light, worked in conjunction around the man to give him a haunting and almost sinister look. “You’re safe now.” Randolph Carter smiled, taking a drag from his cigar.

 

Silence lingered for a tense few seconds as Clair and Carter expectantly stared at one anther. She tried to find the right words for the situation, but couldn’t come up with anything right away. She had many questions, and at length she resolved to ask the most obvious one. “Where am I?”

 

“On the doorstep of Kadath.” Carter answered pointing up at the crimson arch. “I picked you up while you were out and flew you here.” He gently elbowed the creature beside him, indicating that it was his means of transportation. “You, uh, it seemed like you weren’t exactly in the best condition to be hiking up a mountain. So I…”

 

“Nyarlathotep told you to?”

 

Carter gave a silent chuckle and a shrug, beard rimmed lips curling into a joyless grin. “Yeah. He, I guess, foresaw that you would…you know, die…”

 

“So I was dead?” Clair said, sounding more surprised that she actually was. Nevertheless, she was aware that people don’t just die and come back relatively unscathed.

 

“Yes. I’m assuming that Leng spider I saw was the fellow that…that…?”

 

She nodded.

 

Carter nodded back, taking another drag from his cigar. After he vented a plume of tobacco smoke, he continued. “You did a hell of a job out there, you know. People don’t just kill a horde of Almost-Humans—yes, I saw that too—and then go and fight a giant spider. And kill that too!”

 

“It killed me first. I couldn’t have done anything else without that gun.”

 

“The one I loaned you? I knew it would come in handy.”

 

“Look, I don’t want to talk about that anymore.” Clair said, remembering how it felt to put her hand inside her abdomen while she slowly bled herself cold. “How exactly am I alive? I know you said something about an aura but, Carter, that doesn’t make sense. I was already dead!”

 

“Nothing in Kadath makes sense.” Her stomach churned hearing that name, made worse by the fact she was standing right at it’s base. “And I know that from experience. This a mountain shaped hellhole where everything you ever thought was sane and normal comes to literally fuck off and die. Like I said, Nyarlathotep wants you alive and he’ll have you alive. How are you feeling by the way?” For the first time in that moment, Carter made direct eye contact.

 

“I…I…Have no idea, actually.”

 

“Not surprising.”

 

“I mean…” Clair thought for a moment on how to continue. One can easily put words to their condition when it’s something earthly. One can say “I feel like shit” when they feel like shit. One can express joy during a once in a lifetime moment, like weddings or graduation for the Ultharian University. One can easily say “I love you” to someone dear to them after a rough week away. But to put words to waking up from death at the very end of a journey that has lasted several agonizing months is nearly impossible. Scared, for one, could be a good word to start with. Somewhere at the top of those stairs Nyarlathotep waited, as he has been since he first sent his thoughts out to the Ultharian so long ago in a town on the other side of the world. What all has Clair been through just to see this place and to answer this unwelcomed call? In a way, it was an accomplishment, but in others it was a curse fulfilled. She has already done so much that, on any other day, she would have thought impossible, all leading to the Unkown Kadath, where few men have ever entered. If she did not know better, maybe this would have been a privilege worth dying for, but she knew too well this had cost her so much. The twists and turns in this path have changed her and the life she knew, to the point of being something incapable of feeling simple fear as humans knew it. True that she was terrified and that she would love to turn around and go home, wherever in space it may be, but the inescapable path she had been damned to has now led her here, where escape seemed unlikely. There is no point, she knew, in hoping. Over these months, more than fear was growing in her time damaged heart. Maybe “hatred” or “anger” could have summed it up, but she understood that to be an incomplete assumption. Whatever was in her, it was the same thing that ruthlessly slaughtered the satyrs. A complex matrix of feelings and hidden faces that she now felt she must aim directly at the Crawling Chaos himself like the Glock she once handled. So to say she felt “scared” was an understatement. Same can be said with “angry”. But she did know that she wanted to go up those steps and confront the fucker that ruined her life, because her life was all she had. That and Willow, both burned before her eyes and the ashes forced down her throat by Nyarlathotep. What would be lost if the Crawling Chaos decided to bring his worst to the table? Sanity? Life? Neither were worth much to her now. Maybe if she had a future, she could then learn to rebuild both, but for now she was at the very moment she had been dreadfully waiting for for a long time now. She had a second chance, by Nyarlathotep’s wishes no doubt. She had to make it count.

 

“Carter?”

 

“Hm?”

 

“Were you lying to me when you said that the gods feed on fear? Will it really matter if I’m terrified or not?”

 

Carter was about to take another drag on his cigar when she asked this, but his astonishment forced him to stop mid motion. He inquisitively eyed Clair before allowing the hand that held the cigar to fall limp. Ashes fell from it’s glowing tip and sprinkled the smooth stone floor between Carter’s feet. “What made you think of that?”

 

Clair took a step closer, not meaning to look threatening but wanting to assert her need to know the truth. “Yes or no. Did you lie? I just need to know before I go up there.” She leveled a finger up the length of the stairs.

 

For a minute, Carter remained silent as he carefully chose his words. Clair was about to reintegrate before the old adventurer said “Yes. I lied to you. Why do you need to ask this?” He shrugged, clearly vexed.

 

“Because Nyarlathotep said you did.”

 

Carter’s astonishment was furthered. He shook his head and stood. “So now you’re believing him? Even though you bitched me out for trusting him before?”

 

“I don’t trust him, not entirely at least. But I just get the feeling that the way I feel is kinda irrelevant. I know you meant only to encourage me when you told me being brave will change things, and that’s why I’m not mad. I’m just really fucking confused, Carter. A lot of shit is starting to really eat at me now, and being kept in the dark by…by…” She was reluctant to admit her true view on Randolph Carter as a person, but after a second of contemplation she figured it would be best to say it now, regardless of it’s pointlessness. She sighed. “Being kept in the dark by my hero. I know being a bee with a stinger doesn’t mean shit in the face of the gods, so being told otherwise feels almost like a direct affront to my position in all this.”

 

“Clair, I get it.” He snuffed out his cigar between his fingertips and placed the stub in his coat pocket. “I was only trying to make this a little better on you. I thought maybe if you had a little hope on your side it would make…make it easier…when you…” He stuttered and trailed off, as if he was holding back something he felt didn’t need to be said.

 

“Make what easier? You think I’m going to die up there, don’t you?”

 

“I’ve been there before. I lived. I was changed, but I lived.”

 

“And me?”

 

“There’s about a twenty percent chance you’ll ever see this world again.”

 

Clair’s brow furrowed, green eyes beaming both confusion and annoyance. She had no idea what to say other than a simple “What?”

 

“You may never go home again Clair.”

 

“You did.” She asserted, reminding Carter of the end of his famous dream-quest.

 

“Look, there’s no way to predict what Nyarlathotep is going to do, so don’t expect any answers from me. He could kill you, or he could grant your every wish. I don’t know.” Carter looked over his shoulder at the light flooded stairs, seemingly in the throes of fear by the way his thin body trembled. He stayed that way for a few, long seconds, arousing Clair’s curiosity. Then, unexpectedly, he said “No man may know Kadath or it’s ways.”

 

“Carter? Are you okay?”

 

Turning away from Kadath and back to Clair, the old man recomposed himself and gave a fake but warming smile. “Yeah, I’m fine. I just have a lot of memories here. That’s all.”

 

“I can imagine. Bad ones?”

 

“Very. I just didn’t expect to ever come here again, not after loosing touch with my adventurous side. I don’t think I’m scared, not in a normal sense, but I can’t stand being in this God forsaken place, not after everything Nyarlathotep put me through. Plus, I can feel him trying to boot me outta here, so to speak, like some urge to leave that isn’t my own. I’m not welcomed, and he wants me to know that.”

 

“You know him too well?” It came out as a question, but Clair really meant to state the obvious. “I’m scared too, you know.”

 

Carter looked back up the stairs, fear altering his calm facade again. “There’s nothing more we can do but fear. You’re right. That won’t make a difference, but…”

 

“But it will make a difference to me alone. And that’s all that needs to count.”

 

“You’re a smart girl.”

 

“You taught me that.” After a pause, during which she joined the ancient traveler in anxiously gazing up the misted mountain side, the crimson-silver steps that led to Unknown Kadath, she added “I think I’m ready to die now.” Clair smiled, life and peaceful acceptance sparkling in her emerald eyes. “It’s happened once, and it wasn’t all that bad.”

 

In any other case, maybe, Randolph Carter would have been a little upset at the child’s morbid words and her comfort with this imminent death. But Carter was ready to die as well, and had been for several thousand years. He knew what it was like to be stripped of all hope and shown the world in it’s truest form. After all, death is merely an end to a story. It is relief from never ending loss, mental decay, omnipotent confusion, hostility, anger, gnawing remorse, and the multitude of human ties that chain all mortals to the monotonous march of a backbreaking and wonder-less life. He’s heard his old friends tell him point-blank that they were either comfortable with dying or eager to let it happen, so Clair’s own confession was by no means new to him. A very small part of Carter almost wished he could do something to show the girl a better way of seeing life, but that would be just plain foolish. Any individual who would attempt such a thing obviously had never had a true encounter with the shit Carter had seen. Laban Shrewsbury, Anton Zarnak, Titus Crow; Carter could never fully understand why any of them chose to fight for as long as they had. They knew that there was no God. They knew that human beings were a bunch of squishy, out-of-touch machines marching towards nothing but death. They knew that order and peace were nothing but thin veils for a hostile reality. And yet they ceaselessly tried to be heroes and save the Earth from things that could not be stopped. Things that might have been the living avatars of nature herself, and all of her brutally honest ways. Things that could be called the living Death. Nyarlathotep was one of those things. Clair had no chance against him, no matter what she does, and Carter could see that she knew that damn well. The only thing left to do for her and anyone whose ever been in her position was to accept the unacceptable.

 

But what harm would it bring to at least walk into Kadath with a chin held high and stance firm?

 

The black beast starred stirring all of the sudden, thumping it’s barbed tail against the floor swaying it’s gaunt torso to and fro. It’s faceless face turned every which way it could, as if expecting something to emerge from the haze that surrounded the dais. “Look’s like Vellitt’s spooked. ” Carter said regarding the beast. “I think she’s sensing Nyarlathotep too. I’m going to take this as a sign that we need to be leaving soon.”

 

“Vellitt?” Clair said with confusion displayed on her brow. “You mean that monster?”

 

“Night-Gaunt, kid. They’re only monsters if you believe they are. Trust me, these Gaunts are better companions than hounds. I can’t even tell you how many times I’ve embarked on an adventure with one of these guys at my side.” Carter turned and yelled something to the resting Night-Gaunt in a gibbering language that struck Clair as being unsettlingly similar to the Ghoul’s tongue. At the man’s behest, the Gaunt rose and came crawling across the onyx ground on all fours, razor-like claws quietly tapping against the mesh of carvings as it went. Seeing this three dimensional living shadow come at the two of them—regardless of it’s passiveness—Clair couldn’t resist the urge to take a few step backs as the uncouth thing came to a halt at it’s master’s side and lowered it’s body to the ground, inviting him to mount it. Carter continued “Besides, the most harmful thing these fellows can do is tickle you.” He chuckled, patting the smooth skull between the Gaunt’s horns. The terrifying creature gingerly leaned into his touch like any domesticated animal would.

 

Carter must have seen the baffled look on the Ultharians face, because he added “I don’t know why they like tickling people. It’s kinda cute, kinda uncomfortable, and completely weird, but nonetheless they do that.”

 

Instead of pondering on the anomaly of a clawed creature that could easily kill anything with a pulse choosing to tickle it’s prey, Clair decided to ask “So this is it, huh? You’ll be on your way?”

 

As Carter slowly hoisted himself of the Gaunt’s ribbed back, he answered “Yep. We can’t stay here any longer, I’m sure. We’re not welcomed. But you are.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“You know,” Carter sighed, grabbing Vellitt by the horns. The creature protested only with a brief shake of it’s wings. “I would help you with this, sincerely, in any way I could but Nyarlathotep made it clear that he wants no complications, no outsiders. He wants this to be between the two of you.”

 

“Has he told you what he wants from me?”

 

Carter almost considered telling the girl what little he knew, and maybe even his own far fetched hunches, but the slight tugging in his mind signature to Nyarlathotep was enough to deter him. “No. He never said anything.”

 

“Oh. Well…”

 

“But you want to hear what I think?” Carter interrupted. “I don’t think he see’s you as a…as a pet or anything like that.” The tugging in his head intensified. Nyarlathotep was growing both irritated and impatient. “At least in my opinion. No, I think you’re more of a…a…? What’s the, word I’m looking for? A chosen one maybe? Not like he chose you to be his bitch, or slave, but like…”

 

“Like I’m special?” She gave a humorless giggle. “No. I can’t see that being. That’s too damn fanciful.”

 

“Just trying to say anything I can to give you confidence. Look at it this way: What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. If you die then that’s that. But if not, then you’re plunged into the darkness and forced through the most traumatic of trials, thus giving you the chance to come out stronger than any other human. After all, who else in Ulthar could say they’ve been to Kadath. Just keep your eye on the brighter end of the path and maybe you’ll stick with it.”

 

Vellitt suddenly began thrashing and beating it’s wings with enough force to make Clair take a few step backs in attempt to avoid getting slapped. The creature anxiously dragged it’s foremost claws against the onyx, carelessly filing away it’s claws rather than cleaving the stone. Doubtlessly, to both humans, it was hearing the Crawling Chaos’ final warning and was too eager to leave Kadath. As Carter stilled the shadowy creature by taking firm hold of it’s horns once more, he couldn’t help thinking just how ready he was to depart himself.

 

“You should leave.” Clair said, already taking her first steps towards the stairs. She managed to avoid having any emotion in the way she said this, yet she felt a slight pang of grief having to once again say goodbye to the man who saved her life twice now.

 

“I should.” Carter agreed, voice also void of emotion. He extended a hand to the girl just as she was about to pad away. Clair gave the offered gesture a slight and inexplicably surprised glance before taking the old man’s weathered palm in her own scarred hand and shaking it. “Been nice knowing you.” Carter smiled. As Clair returned a faked expression of happiness, she fleetingly pondered on how haunting those last words were. To her, oddly, it sounded like the kind of thing one would say to someone who was nearing the end of a very slow death, albeit lacking any sympathy. Clair liked Carter, not only because he had saved her life, but because he was a prominent figure during her childhood; a character from a tale she had relived more times than she could count, suddenly made material. Obviously, though, Carter didn’t really hold the Ultharian child in any high regard. Since they first met, Clair had the odd feeling that nothing the man said was entirely true nor genuine, especially the praises and encouragements he had offered her.

 

That was only a hunch, though. Clair never claimed to be able to read someone so old and so complex, so she could easily say she was wrong if need be. Still, the thought of Carter telling her lies he thought she wanted to hear lingered, not at all dampened by the fact that he lied once. In the end, however, she didn’t mind that at all.

 

In addition to his possible insincerity, she had also gained the impression that Carter was far beyond dead inside; a mere shell of a man. It was more than clear that the dreamy swashbuckler from the Dream-Quest was gone, and in his stead was a dried out, walking corpse who had watched his world burn more than once. Clair didn’t wonder if she would become like him. She already knew she would.

 

The Gaunt extended the twin shadows that were it’s wings and flapped them, making absolutely no noise. With Carter on it’s back, the Night-Gaunt Vellitt rose from the dais into the air and flew like a missile into the haze. In no time at all, they both vanished, leaving Clair in solitude and silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because I’m such a huge Lovecraft geek, it can go without saying that I’m going to drop several references not only to the Expanded Mythos, but also to modern day Mythos works/stories as I progress with the story. Basically, that’s going to be my half-assed attempt to kinda make “The Age of Darkness” canon with the hundreds of other Lovecraftian tales. I’ve done this before in previous chapters (Like when I mentioned Noden’s true name, as told in the RPG “CthulhuTech”), but never thought to make a game out of it until now. 
> 
> In this chapter, I’ve mentioned three classic human characters in the Mythos: Dr. Laban Shrewsbury, from August Derleth’s cycle of stories, “Trail of Cthulhu”; Anton Zarnak, from several tales by Lin Carter; and Titus Crow, the wacky occult guy from Brian Lumley’s novel series, also called “Titus Crow”. As Carter said, all three of these guys are Mythos specialist who often fight back when an eldritch horror comes knocking at their door. The other reference comes in the form of Carter’s Night-Gaunt, Vellitt, who shares the name of the central character from Kij Johnson’s more recent novella, “The Dream-Quest of Vellitt Boe”.


	28. Through the Light, Into the Black

Kadath’s healing aura apparently did more for Clair than reviving her and mending her wounds. As she climbed the hundreds of tiers that composed the skyward steps, her body remained immune to exhaustion and physical strain. Every time she thought she could feel a cramp growing in her limbs, or feel her breath growing ragged, something seemed to penetrate her entire being and make her feel as if she just woke up from a long and refreshing nap. This was Nyarlathotep’s doing for certain. The force that kept her on her feet vibrated with consciousness, and something akin to awareness, like an invisible guardian angel. Except, of course, that angel was anything but. In any case, the Crawling Chaos had a hand in making sure Clair could accomplish an impossible climb up impossibly tall stairs.

 

Below, the steps descended and faded into a colorless, ambiguously shaped murk, while the steps before her shot straight up into an almost identical scene, the only difference being the “sky” into which the stairs led was laced with a faint light that might have suggested moonlight while the “ground” was devoid of any radiance while also lacking true darkness. As before, everything save for the steps was lost or veiled in this murk, making the world—that is, if there is a world here—seem like an infinite slate of nothing upon nothing. Not even Kadath, which she was clearly nearing, was nowhere to be seen. It was almost like looking at everything through narrowly squinting eyes that were just a hairs width from being completely shut. The scene was made slightly more unnerving by the utter lack of sound, especially those of the wind which had accompanied the last stretch of her journey. All there was to be heard were sharp taps of her boots against the black onyx of the steps and the ceaseless humming of her own thoughts. The silence was much deeper than that of a cemetery on a calm midnight. Much deeper than anything she had ever heard prior.

 

She stopped upon a virtually vestigial impulse to catch her breath, only to quickly remember she had been breathing quite well. She looked back at where the stair’s base would have been. The dais, crimson gates, and grotesque statues were long behind her now, gods know how many kilometers below. Here she remembered what it was like leaving Ulthar for the first time, and it was kinda like this very moment. She crossed the Skai plains—a place that once seemed insurmountably vast to her—and watched as her home—her place of origin—dwindled to a fine point on the horizon until there was nothing to indicate it was ever there at all. Similarly, the red washed gates shrunk beneath her, growing fainter and dimmer until it and the rest of that ominous stage were consumed by the foggy nothingness. Yet, an indefinite but lengthy stretch of time after this, nothing appeared at the top of stairs. No door, no gates, no sign, and certainly no city. But it shouldn’t have been so unexpected. The mountain of Kadath was blatantly gargantuan, so climbing it would reasonably be a very prolonged labor. She would have thought this had there been the steep, rugged terrain of a black mountain beneath her feet. But she instead she trod a never ending flight of steps that seemed to be located in some bland universe of oblivion, not on a mountain above a freezing wasteland. Technically, she should have been happy too be here rather than on the side of an icy mount, but being uncertain of where exactly she was she didn’t feel very assured that the stairs were not some mischievous trap set up by Nyarlathotep for the sole purpose of fucking with her. She imagined herself climbing and climbing and climbing; always climbing to a destination that might as well not exist, all the while becoming bored and frustrated, but not in the slightest bit fatigued. It’s the kind thing that should only exist in a silly fable, and yet here she is.

 

At length, she accepted her situation for the time being and shifted her otherwise unoccupied thoughts towards what she told Carter. _I think I’m ready to die now. It’s happened once, and it wasn’t all that bad_. She wondered if she really believed that. True that dying wasn’t too terrible of an experience, but she could not yet say she was ready for her life to end completely. Not to say she didn’t want it to, but then again she was still uncertain about how she wanted things to play out. She knew she had little to nothing to live for, yet she felt otherwise. Reflecting on that, it probably was an unnerving and inappropriate thing to say in any case. She thought she should have smiled, thanked the old man, and left him with their final words carrying a sense of hope and triumph. Randolph didn’t seem disturbed though.

 

But she realized that feeling the way she did would earn her nothing and do nothing for her situation.

 

Slowly, something appeared to manifest out of haze ahead. Something that the stairs seemed to ascend directly into. Its edges, color, and details were greatly obscured, but there was still enough shadow there to tell her she was heading directly towards a perfectly cylindrical tower, one that was thicker than three houses and taller than she could perceive. Both the top and the bottom stretched infinitely in their respective directions, one vanishing in the darkness below and the other into the dim light above. With newfound curiosity, she approached the ghostly edifice, her strangely echoing footfalls punching holes in the suffocating silence that seemed to radiate from it.

 

Soon it fully loomed above her, displaying its full size and copious details. The stairs didn’t lead into it, but rather, it adhered to the curving side and continued in an upward spiral along the tower’s height, like the stairs in a lighthouse except on the outside rather than in. The tower itself was a patchy charcoal gray and black, giving the entire structure the look of being scorched in a massive conflagration. The non-Euclidean and wildly proportioned bricks were cracked and flacking, completing the look of abandonment. There were no windows. Only curved, vertical ridges all along the circumference that were all just deep and shadowed enough to look like windows. As Clair continued to take in the sight, she proceeded up the stairs and climbed the tower. Gods know how long she ascended. Much like the stairs, the tower seemed to have no head and no end; a structure of seemingly impossible height.

 

But yet she did come to it’s end eventually. There was no warning for what she was about to see. There should have been shadows or traces or ghosts or something within the suddenly appearing veil of dense fog that clasped the tower to indicate the presence of the city, but yet she reminded completely blind to it until the exact moment her boots struck the very last step atop that tower. When that happened, the fog faded—not dissipating—in a way that almost tricked her into believing that it was her own eyes coming into focus and not the immaterial world she found herself in. Yet it was indeed the world fading into being. The city, the mountain, the tower, all of it was only real in an abstract sense, composed of the stuff of dreams rather than matter. And none of it existed until the time came for her path to cross them. They were virtually nonexistent—not apart of her universe—until existence had no choice but to accept them. And thus the dark city of the gods manifested from the fog that wasn’t really fog, atop the tower that wasn’t really a tower, atop the mountain that wasn’t really a mountain, before the Ultharian child who was ready to believe that she herself wasn’t entirely real either. A sky formed, a deep purple expanse filled with crimson stars arranged in a way that seemed too deliberate, like glowing props strung above a stage. Then the city formed, each individual building becoming apparent one at a time as if to avoid overwhelming the girl. Citadels, spires, and buttresses that were the same charred color as the the tower she had climbed and of similar architecture rose inconceivably high above black and empty streets wider than any river Clair had ever seen and vast courtyards chocked with dense clumps of withered, decaying grass and trees that spilled over half collapsed fences like serpentine corpses that had died mid-crawl, and clung to the sides of all buildings and houses like a multitude of intrusive fingers. On every twisting, bent, irregular, overlapping, leaning, abnormal building leered thousands of round windows filled with wells of darkness that in places seemed to creep out into the open air. No window held any light. For that matter, there were no street lamps either, or any other fixture to inset the city atop Kadath with luminosity. The only thing that seemed to diminish the shadows filing every alley and every narrow, winding avenue was the minute shining of the stars.

 

Being fixed upon the side of a mountain peak, all streets, buildings, and dead gardens seemed to gradually climb upwards and flowed into the northern horizon whereon brooded the dim vestiges of a sun that may never rise again and the pitch black disk of a moon edged with a thin halo of wavering violet and white that seemed corrupt and unholy despite it’s pristine brilliance. The skyline was cut with the chaotic silhouettes of the ascending buildings, most prominent of which was a massive pyramid that arose amidst a tangled web of frayed and rotting castles. Unlike the steeped pyramids constructed by the natives of Ngarnek or Celephaïs, this one was perfectly triangular in structure, with four smooth slanting faces of deep black onyx that tapered to a blood red peak like a beacon in a city of never ending night. It was incredibly alien in it’s simple structure, especially being amongst a cityscape of no conceivable architecture. All sides were devoid of any feature. No steps, doors, balconies, or anything to assign the pyramid any purpose. Nothing but a small and lonely window set within the face nearest to Clair, possibly no larger than the window of a cabin. It radiated a bland but serene white light that, despite its diminutive brilliance, noticeably cut the blackness of the pyramid and shone like a second Polaris in the apex of the ethereal city that was beyond a doubt the fabled and unknowable home of the Great Ones and their master, Nyarlathotep.

 

And it appeared that there was almost no one home as Clair looked from one deathly silent door to another. The only inhabit surely waited beyond that star-like window, silently urging forth the Ultharian. Who could have wondered that all this time Clair might have been correct in assuming that the Gods were dead. But maybe they were still alive, and making their selves comfortable in some other corner of the universe, but it was clear that Unknown Kadath hasn’t been touched by any hand for the longest of times, save for that of corrosive age.

 

She breathed deeply—once, twice—and allowed her hate driven determination to overcome her trepidation. She took the first step down the avenue leading towards the black pyramid, dreading everything around her from the way the distant window seemed to stare deep into her troubled soul to the oddly maddening sound of her feet tapping and scrapping against the cracked, onyx pavement. A second step, then a third and she was soon on her way.

 

As she plunged deeper into the heart of Kadath, the buildings seemed to grow both more desolate and more distorted. The road weaved like a tangled serpent between towers that either stood ramrod straight, or leaned into one another like clusters of gargantuan cadavers that had died in each other’s embrace. Many towers literally curved in vast arches over the streets, looking not unlike perfect fusions of buildings and bridges. Soon, the oddities of the buildings mingled with the cosmic strangeness of cathedrals and statues that appeared more and more frequently as Clair neared the heart of Kadath. The grander statues that crowed the non-Euclidean, cyclopean churches were clearly depictions of the same formless daemons that were displayed on the engravings and statues at the crimson gates, but others depicted entities that were unmistakably humanoid. Many even looking exactly like normal human men and women in outlandish clothing. One showed a muscular man who clutched in one fierce looking fist a bolt of lighting; another, a kilted fellow sporting a bird-like head and an ankh adorned crown to go with it; a robed and hoary old man with a once golden patch covering one eye; a young man with a crown of bloody thorns and a look of despair on his bearded face; and a feminine looking thing with several pairs of arms, each clasping a different and pointless looking instrument. Despite their vast differences, every statues had at least one thing in common: they shared the same state of utter ruin, desolation, and neglect. They laid upon the ground, shattered to pieces, or were overtaken by the overly grown yet undoubtedly dead gardens, or eroded by wind and water, or debased by aeons of rust and discoloration. These statutes were clearly forgotten by the divine hands that crafted them and this city, and left to the whims of time, which even in Kadath still held sway. But what was far more ominous than that was that each statue—humanoid or otherwise—were all branded upon their foreheads with the inverted pentagram of Nyarlathotep, etched into the shadow shrouded marble or obsidian with bloody paint that perpetually remained a threatening and frightfully suggestive shade of crimson.

 

Soon, a potent scent began filling the air, and as she continued on it grew thicker and virtually unavoidable. It was the smell of burning wood and flesh, the later she remembered well when she burned a d’hole alive. She stopped and sniffed the air in a pointless attempt to determine where it was originating. Nothing visible appeared to be burning, and no smoke or haze could be seen above or between the buildings, but that didn’t mean there was nothing within Kadath to concern her. The smell unnerved her not only because it was the aroma complementary to death and destruction, but because it portended the presence of something. Wether it was human, god, daemon, or whatever she had no idea nor did she really care. But in any case it stood between her and Nyarlathotep’s black pyramid, so she had no choice but to push through and hope another band of fire worshiping, almost-human satyrs wasn’t waiting around the next corner.

 

However, Clair learned of the smokey odor’s point of origin in only a short time, and even then she was still left a tad puzzled. The smell grew almost suffocating by the time she reached what was probably once Kadath’s town square, or whatever the equivalent of that was for this inhuman capital. She street she walked merged with an incredibly wide roundabout, no less than a kilometer and a half in diameter. Along the circumference, eight other streets also radiated outwards into other portions of Kadath, where the already scarce moonlight seemed to have abandoned them to the thick veil of night. Along the street sides—on the roundabout and it’s radials—stood and protruded a number of irregular devices that were probably similar to street lamps or street signs in purpose, long before their abandonment. Most were merely bland needles or poles that leaned in acute angles while others were massive inter-looping masses of concrete, metal, and obsidian that looked startlingly like troops of tree-insect hybrids, carrying scores of black crystal balls and standing inert and dead above the roads. What interested Clair, though, was the scene in the center of the roundabout; the unmistakable source of the burning smell. She could have only guessed that it was a beautiful garden or courtyard in life, but now it was a corpse field of charred, blackened mats of burned grass that refused to rot into oblivion, peppered here and there with the equally black skeletons of dead trees and the scattered pieces of a long vanished structure. As Clair entered the dead garden’s premise, it became clearer to her that, although the whole place smelled of fire, nothing there was burning nor in the dying throes of a fire. She even knelt to run her palm over the grass. The charred blades crumbled to a fine black dust and smeared itself across her hand at the slightest touch, but it was as cold as everything else within the city and no embers nor wisps of smoke could be seen anywhere. The inferno that had apparently swallowed this whole area had both flared into life and died a long, long time ago, leaving Clair with the knowledge that what she smelled now couldn’t have been anything more than a ghost, forever imprinted within the face of Kadath to remind whatever living entities that remain here—however rare they may be—of the tragedy that befell the long departed inhabitants.

 

Departed? No. Clair knew that, according to her own beliefs and heart-deep feelings, the Gods of Kadath were indeed dead. In Carter’s tale, they merely left this home to lounge comfortably in another. But this time is different. Clair had no idea how she knew this, but she felt that this was the only truth. Perhaps Nyarlathotep—being the last one remaining in Kadath—has somehow conveyed this knowledge to Clair in a subtle way. Perhaps that’s what he had been doing this entire time. The Crawling Chaos wanted the once pious girl from Ulthar to see this. To see her gods’ graves. To think of this notion alone was one thing entirely, but to finally behold proof that the assembled patrons of mankind were nothing but a forgotten memory aroused a kind of dread in her, one that might be felt by a lonely child left behind by their freshly deceased parents.

 

She wiped the soot off her palms onto jacket and proceed, following the scorched cobblestone trail deeper into the garden, passing between rows of naked trees standing like dead sentinels before the wreckage of what looked to be a shrine. The trail ended gradually as the stone underfoot gave way to dead vegetation tangled with shards of stone, metal, and glass. Even that was soon overcome by the mounds of detritus that laid at the garden’s center. Among the scattered remnants of effigies and edifice, all lying ensnared in black vines and blacker soil, only one thing seemed to remain standing, and even this looked to be on the verge of collapsing at any given second. Clair involuntarily thought back to that desolate tower in Leng in which she had spent the night, because the thing that stood before her now was eerily reminiscent of that very thing. It was a kind of steeple—bent, wrapped, and rotting—that protruded out of the rubble. The stones that composed it’s thin and towering mass were badly flaking and riddled with as many cracks and yawning openings as there were stars in the sky. It pointed almost straight upward, high and imposing where the violet sky framed the rusting ornament that topped the steeple’s point, which couldn’t have been anything but the leaf-like variant of the Elder Sign. When it should have been reassuring to see this holy sigil, it was instead despairing to find it as little more than a lone and forgotten relic amongst a crumbling ghost city marked ever so frequently with Nyarlathotep’s own malice-infused symbol. Like a slain hero hanging crucified for all of his followers to see, the blatantly powerless Elder Sign was a stark reminder of who truly ruled her universe.

 

Something glimmered in the heaps beneath the steeple, focusing Kadath’s scant light into Clair’s eyes. At first it looked like a large window, jarred violently from it’s long gone frame and left leaning in an almost vertical position in the wreckage. But as she approached she noticed her own weary form looking back at her within the glass’ perimeter and quickly found that it was a mirror, marred only by a few smudges of soot and a long crack that zig-zagged across the middle. She kneeled before it, almost wishing to savor the chance to see her own reflection, something she had been denied for a long time now. She looked every bit as terrible as she figured; clothes crumpled, ragged and covered in dirt and dried blood; hair stringy and matted with grease and filth; skin pallid and covered in occasional sores; lips badly chapped and covered in trace amounts of blood; eyes bloodshot and rimmed with bags that shouldn’t have been found on someone so young. In fact, Clair would have assumed she was twice her own age had she not known better. She was haggard, ugly, beaten, all just a superficial trace of how she truly felt inside.

 

Before she could depart, she caught sight of her bangs slowly swaying and brushing gently against her brow in a way that almost tickled. Instinctively, she patted them back into place, assuming that it was only the wind. At the same instance that she saw the rest of her locks moving in a slow and oddly deliberate looking way, she noticed that there wasn’t a breeze brushing her weathered skin, nor was there a wind to stir the ashes and branches on the ground, nor any gales howling between the faces of the buildings. Her hair seemed to move on it’s own accord as if she were becoming some kind of medusian. Unsettlement gave way to fascination, and then to realization, as she watched in the mirror as her hair literally started bushing itself from the filthy unkept mop she had worn for weeks to the smooth and lustrous mane of her younger self. When it had finally stilled, she ran her hand through her freshly and mysteriously groomed hair, savoring the way it felt like silk between her fingers and how it spilled over her shoulders like a black waterfall, deliberately ignoring the inexplicableness. She didn’t realize until now just how long her hair had grown, and she found it kinda alluring. She almost regretted wearing it at shoulder length all her life.

 

Her hair wasn’t the only thing to freshen itself, though. The myriad of frays and tears in her outfit—including the ones given by the Leng spider—mended themselves, with blood and dirt covered strands of fabric moving like tentacles towards one another until they interwove and sealed the open holes in her trousers, blouse, scarf, skirt, and jacket. Stains faded like healing cataracts, leaving only the original, vibrant hues her clothes underneath. The crusty blood on her abdomen and legs flaked away and the thick layer of scum that layered her entire body dissolved and rolled off of her as easily as any heavy object, leaving absolutely no trace. Her pink eyes whitened, her overgrown nails shrunk, and her dehydrated skin softened. Even the small aches and pains that she had, over time, grown completely blind to simply vanished. She had forgotten the negligible itching on her back where the Zoog arrows had pierced her until that itching was suddenly no more, and she was reminded what it was like to live without it.

 

Thanks to the healing aura, her entire body suddenly felt and looked better than she could have ever imagined, not only as if she had never suffered the agonies of this journey to begin with, but as if she were born mere days ago. The girl Clair saw in the mirror was the girl she thought she would never see again. The one who lived and laughed in Ulthar; the one who still maintained naivety, joy, and innocence. When she tuned out her bleak environment, she could have fancied that that very moment—knelt in front of a mirror showing someone who she thought was dead—was the moment she awoke from the nightmare she had been trapped in, finding herself looking into her bedroom mirror, and not a piece of glass in a ghost city. She imagined assuring her shaken self that she was still alive and healthy, at home, and far away from the nightmare that is Kadath.

 

Wishful thinking.

 

Easily snapping back into the real world (or Kadath, however “real” it may be), she got on her feet and wordlessly left the garden, pushing the image of her purer self to the back of her mind. She knew that it was only a facade, and nothing that could represent the things that stirred and festered in her heart and head. However beautiful she may look, she considered herself just smart enough to not let that cloud her newly altered view on reality, especially now, in the ruins of Kadath.

 

The garden receded behind her in time, and she soon began scaling an upward sloping street framed on either side by cone-shaped, scalloped structures and above by a network of thin bridges that wove in and out of the uppermost portions of the cones in a myriad of insanely built layers. As the stars began to set, the color of the onyx walls began to deepen until, in short time, the city itself was almost indistinguishable from the night sky. Every structure seemed to be consumed by its own darkness, save for the black pyramid ahead, which remained perfectly visible not only by the tiny leering window, but by a sudden bluish or purplish halo that rimmed every side, one strikingly similar to the one that rimmed the gigantic black moon (which had inexplicably vanished). It was like beholding the perfect solar eclipse, but instead of a sky flung disk, the pyramid was great triangle crowning the pitch veiled horizon.

 

Onward she continued, and the cones and bridges grew more and more invisible. The last thing she could tell for certain was that just before they were completely lost to sight, they started looking more and more slanted as each one passed. All leaned—steeper and steeper—towards the black pyramid, as if these ebony spires were literally bowing down to the ultimate spire: the house of the Crawling Chaos. As if all of Kadath was falling to the ground and worshipping it’s lord.

 

Then, suddenly, the sharp tapping of her feet against the pavement ceased, even if she continued to march onward. Then the rustling sounds of her garments rubbing against one another and her flesh ceased. Then, the very sound of heart beating in her ears silenced. All became silent and all became dark, leaving nothing but the triangular halo growing nightmarishly large before her, and the tug of her own thoughts, which in itself trembled with eldritch fear.

 

She wondered if she was dreaming at that moment. Her own loss of sensation and—to a degree—the loss of herself echoed that very first nightmare where she confronted Azathoth and beheld the faint figure of Nyarlathotep beckoning her forth. With everything but the black pyramid being drowned in darkness, what will she find or see once her environment is illuminated again? The demise of another planet? Nyarlathotep? What?

 

She began to ascend. She didn’t know if she had somehow found a flight of stairs leading into the pyramid, or if everything was giving way to a very real illusion, but it seemed as if she was now miraculously rising—quietly waking as if on solid ground—towards the tiny window. The holo around the pyramid grew to its maximum size, it seemed, and became a sort of gate, she supposed, that left behind its place around the pyramid and lingered in space as a triangular thread of light that ushered in her arrival. The pyramid itself seemed to have lost all form, simply melting out of reality and into the well of infinite night, leaving behind only that window. Even now, it grew closer to Clair (Or she grew closer to it, she could not tell) slowly taking shape from a minuscule flicker to a yawning doorway, spilling forth a kind of venomous anti-light that only succeeded in deepening the already horribly deep darkness around her.

 

She trembled. She sweated. Beads of salty moisture formed and rolled down her forehead and cheeks, only to be snuffed out of existence by the healing aura (Surely, Nyarlathotep wouldn’t want her to look like a nervous wreck when she finally shows). Her breathing quickened, almost to the point of hyperventilation. Without knowing why, she brought one hand up to her throat and gently rubbed the smoothed skin of her neck while the other hand fell between her breast where her shaking palm received the rapid thumping of her heart. 

 

 _This is it._ She thought. _The moment I’ve been waiting for for so, so long. Nyarlathotep is here. I don’t know what he wants to do with me, or to me, but I’m here now. I don’t want to be here, but I can’t change that. He might kill me for who knows what reason, and I can’t do anything about that. I’m confused. I’m scared. I’m going to die. I’m okay with that. I’m not okay with that. I can’t change that. What will happen? Will see Willow again? Was Carter right? Will there be a revelation? An enslavement? A slaughter? Insanity? I’m already insane. The gods are fucking dead, and I have no one to pray to. I want to die but I can’t. I want to fight but I can’t. I want…I can’t…why? I can’t…_ It was at this point, she lost track of her thoughts and she succumbed to the seething hell in her head, thinking on every collective thought and notion and idea that had challenged or graced her throughout her journey. So lost she was in her isolated panic that she didn’t notice herself passing through the glowing doorway, plunging into a singularly of anti-light and quickly arriving at perfect darkness, mingled with perfect silence.

 

She expected—or rather, hoped—to wake up at any second. She needed to go home now more than ever. She swore to herself once that she would face Nyarlathotep with dignity, but now that the moment has dawned and it became more than apparent that there was absolutely no going back, all she could hope for was the simple miracle of waking up from a bad dream. For that’s what she wanted to believe all this was: a dream. When Randolph Carter stood here aeons ago, that’s what it was for him. Why couldn’t it be the same for Clair? Would it be so silly if she pinched herself into wakefulness, or at least plunged herself into that happier delusion?

 

Out of the void blared a sound that shocked Clair out of her wits and prompted her to collapse on her knees. The noise rose in volume slowly and steadily, becoming so immensely loud that she slammed her palms into her ears and held them there, even knowing that it was utterly powerless to stop the sound from drilling into her head and rocking her skull. Whatever it was, it only vaguely sounded like a foghorn, yet that was the only thing she could compare it too. Somehow it sounded less like an instrument and more like the howling of some formless entity with a voice unlike any other in existence. Not even the animalistic bleating of that one curmudgeonly Outsider she remembered seeing couldn’t compare to this voice—this “horn”.

 

The sound abruptly stopped, yet Clair couldn’t seem to let her hands fall back into their normal position. In fact, she held her ears tighter out of fear for whatever blasphemous sound might arise. Exactly ten seconds later, the sound started again, rising just as it had before, enduring for as long as it had before, and suddenly ending as it had before. During the following ten seconds, Clair took the opportunity to rouse herself from her frightened and pathetic state and look around her to see if the howler or piper was anywhere to be see, yet all she could see was darkness. For the third and final time, the “horn” blared again and ended, leaving the void inside the pyramid trembling with it’s echoes. Like a small animal petrified in absolute fright, Clair sat there with her ears still clasped, breathing deeply and quickly. Yet she couldn’t hear her own breaths, or anything else for that matter. To her horror, she was reminded what it was like to die. All her senses were now failing. Only the feeling of groomed hair at her fingertips and the heaviness in her chest were there to let her know she was alive and still had a living body. Slowly, she let her muscles relax as her rapidly quaking heart eased.

 

Her hearing returned in short time, yet her raspy panting wasn’t the only thing to let her know this little fact. There was music. Not droning, howling, bleating, or whatever the hell that ungodly noise was. No. It was actual human music, composed of violas, drums, soft vocalizing, and bells, all seemingly strung together by thin and monotonous, yet strangely serene flutes. It was beautiful. It was the most peaceful, elegant, and lulling melody she had ever had the privilege of hearing. She let this gentle sound penetrate and echo in her mind, and let the pastoral imagery it carried briefly take her away from the void. She relaxed. Nothing of this music was familiar, yet it struck the chords of her heart and reminded her of the soft songs her mother used to sing when she was a toddler. Seeing herself in a crib again—with the plump guarding figure of dear mommy at her side singing the only song Clair could never, ever tire of listening to—brought tears to the Ultharian’s emerald eyes. However strange this present instrumental was, it carried every bit of nostalgia that her mother’s song had.

 

“Welcome.”

 

The voice, dim and distant, roused her from her reminiscing and forced her to notice the twin columns of levitating lights that were gradually approaching from somewhere in the dark. As they neared, she saw that the lights were indeed candles, each mounted atop scepters carried by brown-skinned figures that couldn’t have been anything other than human beings. All were clad in nothing more than gold wrist and ankle bands and silk loincloths that left very little to the imagination. Looking at their bare feet, she saw that all were linked together by strings of chains, clasped on one leg and leading to another. And still they advanced, the slaves marching in tune to the music with stern and entirely emotionless faces, the ringing of their gang-chains fusing unsettlingly well with the melody. The two columns stopped once they were on either side of Clair and in perfect unison turned to face one another. None of them acknowledged or even noticed the girl that knelt before them, but instead, each one brought a silver horn of indeterminable type up to their thin lips and blew a resounding series of notes that matched the conclusion of the omnipresent music. When they finished, they all fell to their knees and lowered their bald heads almost completely to the ground as a flood of iridescent light erupted from the nothing at the very end of the two human columns. Thought it shone as bright as the sun, Clair found she could look directly into this light without hurting her eyes, allowing her to see clearly the thing that emerged into view from it’s blistering white heart.

 

It strode forth, appearing first as an amorphous blob, then slowly condensing into the form of a densely robed and thickly shadowed anthropoid. The strange light faded without warning, yet the figure remained perfectly visible, as if it were emitting it’s own brilliance. Seeing what it was wearing, this came as little surprise. It was clad entirely in a flamboyant robe that lightly swayed around it’s limbs like clouds and sparkled with a dizzying miasma of every color know to the light spectrum and more. Around it’s shoulders was draped a billowing cape that was primarily crimson and black in color and it was held fast to his neck and torso in a carefully arranged array of gilded buttons and fine chains. Crowning the figure’s head was a pschent that was almost entirely hued in gold, save for the spectrally colored arabesque designs around it’s girth and the curious red emblem—resembling both a pentagram and an ankh—positioned just above the forehead.

 

But it was the face of this imposing creature that struck Clair with the overwhelming realization of who presently approached her. It was the fairest and most youthful face of any man she had ever beheld, and it held the girl in something like a trance. From the soft, olive-skinned countenance gazed two eyes the color of fire, made far more prominent in contrast with the kohl smeared on his eyelids. Two eyes intently locked onto the dumbly starting Clair. 

 

Soundlessly, the gorgeous being came to a halt before the Ultharian as she began to rise to her feet, an action she briefly considered to be improper. But why bow to the living specter who haunted her waking nightmares?

 

“Welcome to Kadath.” Nyarlathotep purred, flashing a charming grin.


End file.
